


Roots

by ManicRavingsofaLunatic



Series: The In Between [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Young Justice, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: 1st person pov, Angst, Gen, Language, Origin Story, Romani, Tragedy, first in series, heritage, set before the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 100,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3453128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManicRavingsofaLunatic/pseuds/ManicRavingsofaLunatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every hero has a tragic back story. This is the story of Robin; how one circus brat and extraordinary aerialist became the crowned prince of Gotham by day and the Boy Wonder by night. Was it happenstance that led to the world's first sidekick…? Or was this story already written in stone…?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I know that in the show, Haly's Circus is American and Robin refers to their shows in Europe as a 'foreign tour' – but I think that most people in this fandom quite like the idea of Dick being a Romani gypsy and as such Haly's would most likely be European, or maybe International? I'm not really sure. Basically, instead of using Google translate to put all the dialogue in Romanian, (and other various languages), everything is in English but [bracketed] if not actually in English... make sense?

Every hero has a tragic back story. It's practically an entry requirement for the world's most exclusive clubhouse. Mine is the ultimate rags-to-riches tale that most of Gotham knows thanks to the power of the press – Circus Kid orphaned and then adopted by the city's most eligible Billionaire. But that's not the whole story… the small bit about me moonlighting as Robin isn't common knowledge for starters…

But I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Dick Grayson, and I have been Robin, in one sense or another, since I was nine years old. I was the first protégé, taken on by the Batman (the least people friendly hero _ever)_ before anyone even knew what a sidekick was. Over the years, a lot of people have questioned his decision because of my age – Commissioner Gordon, the League, even our loyal butler Alfred… But that's because they don't understand.

They don't know the whole story.

It all began over a year before the Flying Graysons performed their final show – long before a billionaire took pity on an orphan – with a little girl called Annie Trudeau.

Her mother was a fortune teller from New Orleans that Pop Haly had picked up on the circus's first US tour. Madame Trudeau wasn't a part of the main show, but she was one of the welcoming attractions, entertaining the audience members before they even entered the Big Top. She was a hit with the punters who were eager to part with their cash to hear her often scarily accurate predictions, but amongst the circus folk her 'talent' was mocked and labelled a con.

This prejudice applied to her daughter as well.

There were tons of kids at Haly's Circus. Some were the children of the performers, like me, while some were orphans from previous acts that had been taken in without question. Some of them were runaways that had just shown up one day and never left. But even in a group of outcasts and freaks, there were still the _bullies_ and the _bullied._

That day it was Annie's turn to bear the brunt of the name-calling and cruel jibes. I was sitting on the roof of Jimmy Sr. the clown's trailer (I always have had a thing with high places) reading a book that I had 'borrowed' from the last city's public library. Most of the kids couldn't read or write – we never went to school or had a proper education – so the fact that I had self-taught myself basic literacy was one of those things that would most likely get me beaten up if the others knew. So no one did, it was one of my most closely guarded secrets.

I could hear the kids calling the usual names, and scooted to the edge of the roof to check it out. I saw little Annie Trudeau sitting on the grass with her knees pulled up to her chin as the bigger kids surrounded her and started singing. It was a stupid rhyme that basically called Annie's mother a whole lot of not-nice things, and before long the six-year old girl was crying and trying to avoid the odd kick that came her way.

My cousin John would always tell me not to get involved. As usual, I ignored him.

From my vantage point I scanned the sea of trailers and tents that surrounded the Big Top that was currently in the process of being dismantled so that we could move on to the next city. Typically, there wasn't a single adult in sight, which meant that unless I wanted to take Annie's place I would have to find a way to distract the horde of kids. Salvation came in the form of an undefended popcorn stand, and I grinned.

"[Guys!]" I yelled in my native language, leaning over the edge like a lookout on a pirate ship. I had to shout again, even louder this time in order to get their attention, but soon I had all eyes on me. Most of the kids didn't speak Romani, but there are certain things, like 'free popcorn', that translates well in all tongues. "[Old Harry's left his cart unguarded – it's a free for all!]"

All the faces below turned from angry sneers to excited smiles – the mob mentality shattered by the promise of buttery goodness. Within seconds the crowd was gone, and I smiled smugly at my own genius. But then I heard Annie, still curled up on the ground and sobbing quietly, her face buried in her arms. Without another thought I performed an impressive somersault off of the trailer (so I was a show-off… sue me) and landed lightly right next to her.

There wasn't really a default language at Haly's. It wasn't a Romani troupe – Pop Haly was American, my Aunt was Portuguese, my Mom was Russian... The circus was pretty much just made up of a whole bunch of people from all over the place. So, naturally, growing up there I had picked up a little of a lot of different dialects. Annie only spoke two languages; English and French. I wasn't exactly known for my proficiency in either, but I decided to give the latter a go anyway. I dropped into a handstand in front of her so that I could see her face. "[No cry is bad – it's done over now.]"

Annie looked shyly at my upside-down face and giggled between sniffles at my butchering of the French language. And then she rambled something in rapid-fire French, her southern accent so completely different to the Parisian of Jacques the Clown that I had learned that it was practically another language.

"Er…" I muttered intelligently, before making a show of losing my balance and flopping gracelessly onto the grass. Hopefully it distracted her from the fact that I had no idea what she had just said, but somehow I don't think that it worked. "[Yeah...?]"

She smiled at me and scrubbed at her tears with the back of her hand. And then she switched dialects. "I know that you can speak English."

I blinked stupidly at her. That was _my_ dirty little secret (well, another one). Only the top adults, like Pop Haly and my parents and a few others could properly speak English (because it's a stupidly hard language to learn with all its stupid rules that don't make any sense and... _ahem_ , I'll get to that rant later). It was the language that they used when they didn't want anyone else to know what they were talking about – so I had made it my mission to learn it too (kinda) so that I could eavesdrop on them. I had listened to whole conversations before that they didn't think that I could understand and learned loads. Only my cousin John knew, and I had sworn him to secrecy. He'd never tell anyone.

So how did Annie know?

"I won't tell, I promise," she whispered conspiratorially. Her gaze grew distant as she stared off somewhere over my left shoulder; something about her hazel eyes making me shift uncomfortably. "It's good that you can though. It will help. Make things a little easier."

I didn't have a clue what she was talking about.

She scoffed slightly, her face looking completely crestfallen, like someone had just told her that all the popcorn was gone. "What am I talking about? Nothing's going to be easy. I wish that it didn't have to happen… not to you. You're the only one that's nice to me."

She was freaking me out, but I tried very hard not to let it show on my face. She had just been bullied after all; I didn't want to be as mean to her as the other kids. "Umm… what?"

Annie blinked as if she was coming out of a trance, and then looked up at me with eyes that seemed far older than her six years. I knew that her mother was a fortune teller, and a damn convincing one at that, but I didn't really believe in all that hocus pocus. I thought that it was an act, a con, like everyone else. But looking at that girl right then, not a trace of a lie marring her features… I totally believed that she had seen my future. And it wasn't exactly a happy one.

But I was also an eight-year-old boy with the attention span of a goldfish. In a few months, Annie and her mother would leave the circus, and I'd forget all about the odd little girl with the hazel eyes. I wouldn't even think about this weird encounter again for another year. By which point, it would be too late.

I sat on the grass, looking very confused as Annie climbed to her feet and brushed off her dress. She smiled sadly and said,

"You'll never stop flying, Robin."


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a bit right at the beginning of this chap that is a direct quote from the Batman 'Black Mirror' graphic novel (Dick Grayson as Batman post Final Crisis - give it a read!) No copyright infringement intended or whatever; I just like the dialogue :) There's also a scene that I've transcribed from the New52 Nightwing comic (Volume 2, I think) chapter 'Perpetual Motion' - This is all the cheating that I've done, I swear :P Enjoy!

The first of April, 2006. The last day of my old life.

When we did the US tour, my parents would tack up a big map of the country on the wall of our trailer. The map had pins stuck in all the places that our troupe was going to stop that season, with different towns and cities marked with different colour pins. Blue pins meant small towns – which meant small shows and less dangerous stunts. Red pins meant big cities – so, big shows and more dangerous tricks. All the stops were marked in red and blue.

Except for Gotham City, which was marked with a black pin.

According to my father, the black pin meant 'no holds barred'. Pull out all the stops. Bring down the house. It meant put on the biggest, riskiest show of the season. No catch wires, no safety nets. Everyone pushing themselves to the limit.

I remember one time I asked my Dad _why?_ What made Gotham so special? And my Dad, he looked down at me, and he said '…some places just have that hunger about them, son. And you either feed them what they want… or you stay far, _far_ away.'

Gotham was one of my favourite stops on the tour. But I was just a dumb kid. I loved the feeling of adventure and danger that came with the city, because I didn't understand the true darkness of the place. Whenever we stopped there, John and I would leave the safety of the grounds and sneak off to the train yard nearby to play one of our favourite games.

Parkour train racing.

"[Good thing you're not this slow in the ring, Johnny!]" I yelled as I ran full pelt down the tracks and straight into the lead. "[They'd have to cut the other acts!]"

I felt John closing the distance behind me, his longer legs eating up the metres even as I pushed myself to sprint faster. He took after his father, my Uncle Richard, both of them inheriting the tall gene of the family. My dad and I… well, we got the short straw. Literally. And yes, my father and uncle are called John and Richard, and me and my cousin are called Richard and John – it's a tradition. I'm pretty sure that somewhere in my family tree there is a nut obsessed with Robin Hood.

But that's beside the point.

John retorted from somewhere off to my left as we went from clear tracks to idle trains, but whatever his biting remark was it was lost to the wind. "[Sorry! Can't hear you from all the way up here!]" I called back as I launched into a flip and cartwheeled over a train. I landed in the gravel and kept running without missing a beat.

That was the trick, to keep moving. Always looking forward, never back. Reading your surroundings, each other… and other people.

John pulled in to the lead, going through the open doors of an empty goods car while I was forced to scale a woodpile and somersault over the roof. I heard the rumble of the oncoming train long before I saw it. It was coming from the left, picking up speed as it headed out of the train yard. It was on the track twenty yards ahead – at current speed we'd reach the track in twenty-five seconds… the train would hit our crossing point in twenty-six… it would be _so close._

The adrenaline rush was amazing as I dashed towards the danger like a junkie. And then the security guard stepped out of nowhere – right in front of the track. Smack bang in the way. The guy in the blue uniform brandished a night stick and thrust out a hand in the universal gesture for 'stop', but we both ignored him.

I was always better at the 'reading' part than John. I knew exactly what was going to happen milliseconds before it did.

I watched as John kept going, misreading his surroundings and the guard completely. The train's warning whistle called shrilly as it approached with quickening speed. John flew down from a carriage roof and landed solidly on the guy's shoulders, hand-springing into a flip over the tracks and running onwards.

He didn't look back. He didn't even realise what he had done. But I saw.

The guard's centre of gravity was off, and John's move had set him way off-balance. The guy wind-milled his arms, fear and surprise warring for precedence on his face as he realised that he was falling backwards. Onto the tracks. Into the path of an oncoming train.

I didn't think. I just reacted.

Doubling my speed, I launched myself at the guard, tackling him around the middle with enough force to knock the wind right out of him, might have even cracked a few ribs. We cleared the tracks – _just_ – the train brushing the air inches behind me as we both tumbled on to the gravel in a heap.

Neither of us moved until the entire length of the train had passed us by and vanished out of the yard. We lay in the dirt in shock, breathing heavily as we both struggled to process what had just happened. For the first time I had felt real danger… and it scared me. But it wasn't the risk to my own well-being that had got me the most. It was the fact that we had put someone else in peril. We had nearly cost this man his life to play a stupidly dangerous game. Nothing like a near death experience to put things in perspective.

Blinking the dust out of my eyes, I pushed myself onto my knees and turned to check that the guard was okay. He stared back at me, his expression stuck somewhere between anger and gratitude. I was really hoping that he was going to go with the latter. But then his eyes narrowed and I knew that I was doomed.

"Y-you are in big trouble, kid!" the guy scolded as he brushed off his uniform and climbed to his feet. "This is private property!"

I looked up at him from where I was still curled up on the ground, trying to look as innocent and clueless as possible. I was nine-years old and adorable – Pop Haly always said that I could get away with murder with my puppy dog eyes – but somehow this guy was immune.

I full on Puss-in-Boots-ed him with my baby blues and made my accent as thick as I could. "No… speak Engrish…?"

The guard didn't buy it.

He called the cops on me, and before I knew it I was enjoying my first ride in the back of a police cruiser (it wouldn't be my last…). The train yard was practically spitting distance from the circus grounds, but the cops drove regardless – probably just to get the full effect as they rode between the caravans with their blue lights flashing. Instantly there were curious stares and curtain twitchers watching our progress as we trundled towards my family's trailer.

I'll never forget the look on my mother's face when she opened the door to find me standing between the two imposing police officers. I have never felt more ashamed or guilty in my life than I did right then.

The icing on the cake was when I was told to wait outside while my parents talked to the nice policemen about my heinous crimes. I felt like a bad dog that had been banished from the house for chewing the furniture or something. It didn't help that the folks from our neighbouring pitches kept trying to very subtly find out what was going on by staring very obviously at me and the police cruiser.

I eavesdropped on the conversation inside the trailer for a little while before I got frustrated with listening to the cops accusing my Mom and Dad of bad parenting. The curious bystanders studying me like a criminal was making my blood boil as well, until eventually I couldn't take anymore. I stormed off in a strop, seconds away from throwing a temper tantrum about the unfairness of it all – I had saved that guy's life after all, and the accident wasn't even my fault!

It was incredibly tempting to tell them that it had all been John's idea – especially since he had left me to get caught and he was still nowhere to be seen as the cops conspired with my parents to decide my eternal punishment.

But all of that fell out of my head when I heard the shouting match coming from Pop Haly's trailer. I ran up behind the grey metal box that served as the circus's site office and crouched down behind the wheel. I was small enough that I barely had to duck to see underneath as the door to the trailer opened. A pair of expensive looking shoes descended the stairs, each step a heavy clang on the metal grating.

"You should really consider my offer," a sleazy voice that I didn't recognise drawled in English. His tone set me on edge, and even though I didn't really understand what was going on, I knew enough to recognise that the stranger was bad news. "Gotham is a dangerous city after all."

Haly must have been standing at the threshold as I couldn't see his feet from my hiding place. "I don't take kindly to threats," the Circus Manager growled back.

"Oh, it's not a threat Haly, it's a warning," the stranger retorted with mock sincerity. "Your merry band of freaks perform some dangerous stunts. It would be a terrible shame if something were to go wrong…"

This guy was threatening my home, my family, and I didn't like it. He was upsetting Pop Haly, who was practically my grandfather, and it was making me even angrier than I already was. But I was just a kid – there was nothing I could do. If I stepped out there with my hackles raised and an empty threat, the stranger would just laugh at me. I needed something that would scare him… something like… the police.

With a plan in mind, I stood up and marched round to their side of the trailer, catching my first sight of the man that would kill my parents. Tony Zucco. He was a thickset man wrapped in an Italian suit with a matching fedora perched on his round head. His eyes were too small for his large face, both of them homing in on me the moment that I stepped out of the shadows.

Pop Haly noticed the change in Zucco's demeanour and turned to see me. Instantly he was down the steps and placing himself squarely between me and the stranger. Zucco glared at me for having the audacity to interrupt their meeting, but I ignored him and went right up to Haly. I tugged on his sleeve like the little kid I was as I explained what had happened at the train yard in Romani. Zucco had no idea what I was talking about, but I made sure that I used the English word for 'police' as often as possible. His eyes widened as he began scanning his surroundings, until he noticed for the first time the blue flashing lights over by my family's trailer.

Once I was finished, Zucco made one final threat and then beat a hasty retreat. We watched him go, and then Pop Haly looked down at me and smiled. I could still see the anxiety in his eyes, but as far as I was concerned, it was over. And then Haly was steering me back to my parents, lightly scolding me for my antics and promising me all sorts of punishments.

I groaned as I realised just how totally grounded I was. I was never going to see the sun again.

* * *

Okay, I might have been exaggerating slightly. My parents' version of being 'grounded' was not quite the same as you'd imagine. I wasn't locked in the confines of our cramped trailer until the end of time – I wasn't even banned from leaving the grounds (well, not in so many words, anyway). No, being grounded in the Grayson homestead was _so much worse._

It was meant literally. I was cut from the act.

I was the Flying Grayson that was not allowed to fly. And it _sucked._

That evening as the sun set my Mom and Dad set off with Aunt Karla and Uncle Rick towards the Big Top for final set up while I was left behind. Even my cousin John, who had materialised out of nowhere an hour beforehand looking completely innocent, was allowed to join them without any questions being asked.

I was _not_ a happy camper.

For an hour or so, I lay on my bunk and stared up at the ceiling; ranting to myself about the unfairness of it all. I was mad. Angry in that indignant way only a child can manage, irritated that nobody had bothered to listen to _me_. No one had even heard my side of the story (well, except Pop Haly, but he hadn't really _asked_ for it). I was being _punished_ for something that wasn't even my fault and it was just _urgh._

The thing is, when I get mad is when I tend to do something stupid. That night was no different.

I remember thinking: _fine._ If I'm going to be punished anyway, I might as well actually do something bad to deserve it. Which gave me an exceptionally terrible idea.

It was called 'working the mile'. A road was marked out from the parking lot to the entrance of the Big Top that, for the thirty minutes before the show began, was always packed with a slow-moving herd of audience members. Most of the younger kids worked as their entertainment, darting between the people and performing various tricks to warm them up before the main event. And if a few of them just happened to have their wallets or purses liberated en route… well, it was all to help Haly's.

Except, I had recently learned, that it _wasn't._ My father had found out that I used to help out on the mile and told me the truth. It was the bigger kids telling lies so that we would steal for them; creating their own little petty theft ring and using us as tools. I had promised that I would never be involved again.

But I was also nine, and dumb and angry and yeah; I had a bit of a rebellious streak.

So, I slipped into the crowd, playing the role of distraction; pulling off gymnastic routines that would make Olympic medallists green with envy while another kid got close to the mark. I had no intention of actually stealing anything myself that night (I could still picture my mother's face when she found out that I had been a thief) but that didn't mean that I wasn't capable. By the time that I was six I was an expert at picking pockets – a skill that's come in very handy over the years. How many people do you know who can pick a super villain's pocket in mid-air above a speeding train? Eh?

But I'm going off topic again…

I may have had no _intention_ of stealing that night, but that didn't mean that I could ignore an opportunity when I saw one.

I caught sight of his shoes first (I was halfway through a cartwheel at the time) and knew that I'd spotted someone with cash to burn. Once I was the right way up again I gave him a closer look. A youngish man – late twenties, maybe early thirties – short dark hair, blue eyes; wearing a suit that probably cost enough money to feed a small country for a year. A stick thin blonde in impossibly high heels was hooked on his arm – probably a supermodel or something.

I had absolutely no idea that I was looking at Bruce Wayne, the richest man _ever._

All I knew was that this guy wouldn't miss his wallet. A low whistle sounded from behind my right shoulder, and I glanced back to see a fellow circus brat juggling five batons flawlessly. I nodded at him and he headed towards the couple, instantly capturing the model's attention.

I went straight for Bruce's pocket.

It was the perfect lift (if I do say so myself). No one else would have noticed. _No one_.

It all happened so fast that even now I couldn't tell you exactly what happened. One moment I had my fingertips on the leather wallet – the next I was dangling over half a metre off of the ground, Bruce Wayne's hand clamped tight around my wrist like a vice. The wallet was prominently displayed right before his eyes, leaving no doubt as to my guilt. His date gasped in shock, though I couldn't tell if she was surprised by my attempt at theft, or the billionaire's reaction to it.

Bruce Wayne scared me in that moment far more than Batman ever has. I was absolutely terrified. I had never been caught before. Ever. And this guy looked like he was about to squish me.

We were starting to cause a scene, which Bruce suddenly seemed to realise. He lowered me back to ground level without a word, plucked the wallet out of my grasp, and then walked off with a speechless supermodel still latched on to his arm.

I stood in shock for a good five minutes, absently rubbing at the bruise on my wrist as the crowd continued towards the tent. My juggling companion had made himself scarce the moment that things had gone wrong, and the other kids avoided me now that I'd been caught and the other marks were aware of my intentions, not wanting to ruin their own chances.

By the time that I'd recovered my wits, there were only a few stragglers left on the dirt road. I ran ahead of them, not wanting to miss my chance to wish my family luck before the show.

And that was the first time that I met Bruce Wayne.


	3. Chapter Three

That night, I had the best seat in the house.

From the platform high on the centre pole, I could see everything. The hundreds of people finding their seats, the bright colours of the costumes and props… with a shudder, I realised I could even spot where Bruce Wayne was sitting with his supermodel date. Beneath the sleeves of my hoodie I could feel the hand-shaped bruise on my wrist and I glared down at the man who had given it to me. Bruce Wayne looked straight back at me as if he could feel my stare, and I quickly averted my gaze. That man freaked me out!

Technically, I wasn't supposed to be on the platform that night – I was grounded after all – but like I've said, I was nine and adorable. One pleading look at my Uncle and I was scaling the ropes like I wasn't in the doghouse.

The Flying Graysons were the stars of Haly's Circus. We were who the audience came to see. But that wasn't to say that everyone else was dull in comparison. I watched from my perch high up in the rafters, laughing right along with everyone else at the antics of the clowns, and clapping wildly as all the other acts pulled off their own daring stunts.

When it was coming up to my family's turn to perform, my Dad climbed up onto my perch and crouched down beside me. He briefly attempted to give me a disapproving look for breaking my punishment, but it vanished almost instantly; replaced with an excited grin. "[So… your cousin confessed.]"

I looked up in surprise. "[He did?]"

"[Yep,]" Dad nodded, and then waved at his brother who was waiting with my Mom and Aunt Karla on the opposite platform. John stood between the three adults with a guilty expression plastered all over his face. I smiled smugly.

"[You're still grounded though,]" Dad continued, and my face fell.

"[But… but… it wasn't my fault!]" I argued petulantly. I then realised that John was still in uniform and getting ready to perform. "[He's still in the show?!]"

My Dad shrugged. "[It was too late to change the choreography, son. He's grounded for two months, starting tomorrow.]"

"[That's not fair!]"

The music that accompanied our act started up, and my father stood and untied his trapeze ready – effectively ending our last conversation. The spotlights focused on us, and even though I wasn't performing, I waved along with the rest of my family. And then the Flying Graysons took to the air and the whole crowd went nuts like they always did.

To start with, everything was fine. No one had a clue just how badly things were about to go.

But then I began to realise that something wasn't quite right. There was more give in the rope than there should have been, and there was an odd noise coming from the rigging behind me. On ground level, the roustabouts were taking away the net for the final leg of the act, but I wasn't watching the show anymore. I climbed to my feet to get a better look at the rigging.

My heart stopped when I saw the frayed rope, hanging on by its final thread. It wouldn't register until later that there was something on the rope, a thin wisp of smoke rising from the fibres as if they were being burned. Right then, all I cared about was the imminent danger that my family was in.

I spun around and shouted at the top of my voice as the Flying Graysons performed their final stunt.

I was drowned out by an impossibly loud _snap_.

I don't really remember all that happened next. I just see snapshots in my nightmares – like the highlight reel of the worst night of my life.

The snapped rope whipped me in the shoulder hard enough to draw blood and knock me to my knees. I had so very nearly joined my family in their rapid descent, but I instinctively caught myself at the last moment, hanging over the edge of the platform and staring in horror at my parents' terrified faces as they fell.

John wasn't a part of the final stunt – we were both too young to be performing without a net. He had been on the platform opposite when the rope had broken. I didn't see him reach uselessly for his mother's flailing hand. I didn't know that he had overstretched and ended up tumbling after them. I wouldn't know until I counted their broken bodies later and came up with five.

I have no idea how I got from my perch down to the centre ring. I remember running – Pop Haly's hands reaching out to stop me, but I pulled out of his grip and kept going. I dropped to my knees in the middle of their twisted forms, oceans of blood soaking through the denim of my jeans.

I don't know how long I sat there, staring at them in disbelief. Several people tried to take me away, to protect me from the horror of the sight of their cooling bodies, but I refused to be moved.

I was in shock. The pain, the fear, the horror, the sadness… the full realisation of what had just happened was so huge that I simply couldn't process it all right then. I was blessedly numb. My mind blank and my heart frozen. All I could do was stare.

Someone had very optimistically called the paramedics. One of them crouched in front of me, trying to block my view as she checked me over – purposely shining her little flashlight in my eyes as if blinding me was somehow better than looking at the twisted limbs. Her partner had the job of confirming their deaths. I watched and listened as he went from corpse to corpse; feeling for a pulse while pointedly avoiding my stare, and then covering them with a white sheet. And then he knelt beside my Uncle's body, and blinked in surprise.

"This one has a pulse," he said, completely stunned, before the professionalism took over. His partner immediately forgot all about me and ran over to my uncle, the EMTs working furiously to get him stable enough for transport.

I felt a spark of hope. And it inspired movement. Slowly, I crawled over to where the two of them were leaning over my uncle, ignoring the blood that soaked my hands. I couldn't speak, but the female paramedic glanced up at me and seemed to read the question in my eyes. She tried for a smile as her partner fitted the brace around Uncle Rick's neck. "We'll do everything we can for him."

* * *

It's a blur after that, my concept of time completely distorted. All I know is that the blood was already drying on my clothes and skin by the time that I allowed myself to be pried away from their bodies. I was still in shock, practically catatonic, but I had unfrozen from my silent vigil; becoming malleable and compliant simply because I no longer cared. About anything.

My parents, my family, was gone. There were no spirits left to hold onto, and I didn't want to be around their corpses anymore.

And so when a stranger came along and picked me up, I didn't fight them. The man took me away from the crimson splattered centre ring and out of the Big Top; and then knelt on the dewy grass and put me down. Strong hands gripped my shoulders, forcing me to blink and look up.

The first thing I saw, which was kind of impossible not to notice, was his massive ginger moustache. It sat on his top lip like a big hairy caterpillar, and I couldn't help but stare. His lips quirked at my wide-eyed expression, but his eyes remained sad behind his thick-framed spectacles.

"Hi, Richard," he said kindly, the caterpillar wriggling as he spoke. "My name's Jim Gordon, I'm a police officer."

I didn't answer – I wouldn't be able to speak again for a long while yet – but he nodded as if he understood my silence regardless. He squeezed my shoulders and stood, his comforting presence almost immediately replaced by Pop Haly. My surrogate-grandpa scooped me up and held me close, muttering reassurances in his broken Romani as Gordon watched us.

And then something changed in both of the men, their stances suddenly becoming tense and defensive. I wouldn't understand until I properly awoke from my stupor later, but this was the arrival of Allison Jones, a social worker from CPS. She was a big woman with a face that looked as if she regularly sucked lemons, her entire posture hunched as if she were constantly expecting a fight.

She studied me appraisingly. "Is this the kid?"

Yeah, she was real tactful and sympathetic like that.

Pop Haly shielded me protectively as if he thought that maybe if the woman couldn't see me then she'd go away. Gordon gave her the cliff notes version of everything that had just happened, which made her expression soften ever-so-slightly. "No next of kin?"

"His uncle is at Gotham Memorial," Gordon replied, his eyes flickering to look at me carefully, before returning to Allison; telling her with a look just how bad my uncle's condition was.

"I'll take care of him," Pop Haly instantly offered. He gestured at the circus around them and the various folks that hovered around, unsure what to do in the wake of such an unexpected tragedy. "We're his family."

Allison raised a disapproving eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Did the parents leave a will, stating you as his legal guardian?"

Pop Haly shifted uncomfortably. We were simple travellers that a made a living entertaining – we didn't have last will and testaments. In fact, we barely had _any_ legal papers. Not legit ones at least. Considering that my birth certificate states Jericho, Kansas as my place of birth when I've never been anywhere near the Sunflower State, I reckon its safe to say that that's forged too.

Of course, Haly could have pointed out the multitude of orphans and runaways that he already unofficially took care of, but then CPS might have decided to take a closer look at the circus. He couldn't risk the possibility of the others being taken into care too. And so he had conceded defeat, and let me go.

"Does he speak English?" Allison asked. Pop Haly shook his head, making the social worker roll her eyes and sigh as if I had suddenly made her life ten times harder. "Let's go then."

Allison made absolutely no move to take me out of Haly's arms and carry me, so he put me down on my feet on the grass and said his goodbyes. Gordon watched apprehensively, not exactly having much say in the decision either, and then Allison was half-dragging me by the wrist over to her waiting car.

She put me on the back seat and slammed the door before climbing behind the wheel and starting the engine. As the car rumbled to life and began to drive away I twisted in my seat and stared out of the rear windscreen, watching Haly's circus shrink to a pinprick and vanish behind a building as we turned a corner.

And that was the last time for a long time that I would see the only home I'd ever known.

* * *

I didn't really sleep that night, but I must have blacked out or switched off or something, because the next thing I knew it was morning and I was lying on one of those examination tables in a doctor's office.

Confused, I pushed myself upright and blinked around at the sterile office. The lights were off and the blinds drawn, but I could just make out the worktop that lined the opposite wall to my impromptu bed, along with a couple of chairs and a poster declaring that _'Coughs and Sneezes Spread Diseases'_. I had never been to a doctors before (unless you counted a back-alley clinic...) but I figured that that was where I had to be. I didn't really remember what had happened or how I got there. That was until I saw my hands.

I was still covered in their blood.

My jeans were rigid and caked from the knees down, my once-white sneakers now a horrible shade of pinky-red. I could feel it on my face like a dried on scab. But the worst thing was my hands. They looked as if I had dunked them in a bucket of blood, coating my skin and the cuffs of my sleeves.

Understandably, I panicked.

In my head, I could see them falling and hitting the ground over and over and over again. I saw their impossibly still, broken bodies staring lifelessly at me as I knelt in their blood. I saw the last smile my father ever gave me. I saw the pure terror on my mother's face as she fell. I couldn't breathe – couldn't think straight. I started scratching at my hands, trying to pick off the thick layer of dried blood; unintentionally adding my own to the mix.

"Hey, hey! Stop that!" A female voice instructed, and suddenly there were hands gripping my wrists and halting my attempts to skin myself. The owner of the voice pinned my arms to my sides and crouched down before me, revealing herself to be a pretty brunette. Her dark eyes widened as she studied me – all covered in blood like a horror movie extra and eyes wide like a feral animal – and then softened sympathetically. "Aww, honey. What in the world have you been through?"

Mute, I didn't say a word, but the answer flashed before my eyes; the sickening thuds of five bodies hitting concrete echoing in my ears. Maybe she read how utterly broken I was in my terrified expression, or perhaps she was just used to dealing with traumatised kids, but she didn't ask any more questions. She didn't even ask my name, or anything that would require a verbal response. Instead she led me over to the sink and helped me scrub off the blood that stained my hands.

She finally introduced herself as Nurse Angela Dumas, or Angie for short. She found me a clean pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt and then explained to me that I was in a group home in Gotham. Considering how surprised she was to find me in her office, I doubt that she had any idea how I had ended up there, but she didn't linger on that subject too long. She sat with me for what felt like hours, chatting amicably and not seeming to mind that I gave no response in return.

She didn't actually stop talking until there came a sharp rap at the door. The person on the other side didn't even wait for an answer before barging in as if he owned the place.

I then found out that he did.

His name was Jeremiah Merrick, though most of the kids just called him the Warden, which Mr Merrick seemed to like. He was a bulldog of a man; his face pinched in a perpetual frown and his small, dark eyes little pinpricks beneath his protruding brow. He was also short – barely five foot – his wolf stare daring anyone to bring that up.

He disliked me instantly.

With a glare that clearly said that I was worth less than the dirt on his shoes, he introduced himself with a heart-warming pep talk. "I don't want no trouble from you, Gypsy. Just do as you're told and keep your head down and the other boys might not tear you to shreds. Welcome to Bristol Boy's Home."

I briefly wondered if he knew what had happened to me the night before; but I quickly figured that that knowledge wouldn't have changed a thing. Mr Merrick didn't do sympathy. (How in the world did this guy end up in charge of a group home, you ask? I have _no_ idea.)

He paid Angie slightly more respect than he did me and excused us from the Nurse's Office. He then beckoned me to follow him, but didn't dare deign to touch a filthy circus brat. He led me up a rickety staircase and down several corridors until we eventually reached the dorm that I would be calling home for the foreseeable future.

The room was small, made to feel even more so by the four metal-framed beds that lined the walls like a military barrack. Each bed had a corresponding footlocker barely the size of a shoebox – most orphans didn't have a whole lot by way of possessions, after all – and name plaques on the wall above the headboards. The only bed currently unclaimed was beside the window – which was barred like a prison cell.

The Warden gave me a pen to write my name on my plaque, watching in amusement as I struggled with the English spelling (understanding and speaking a language is a whole lot different to writing in it) and then thrust a small plain back-pack at me. "Some old guy dropped this off for you. Hide it if you want to keep it."

And with that sage advice, the Warden left.

I climbed onto the unfamiliar bed in my borrowed clothes, feeling like an outsider that didn't belong. Tentatively, I opened the backpack. Two sets of clothes had somehow been shoved inside the tiny bag, along with a note from Pop Haly. He didn't know that I could read English, so all that he had written on the folded piece of paper was 'SORRY'.

Tucked inside was a picture of me and my parents.


	4. Chapter Four

It didn't take me long to run away.

It was the next day, in fact. By some miracle, I had thus far managed to avoid the other boys at Bristol. They had school during the day, and the night before I had skipped dinner. I only knew my room mates by their name plaques, none of them bothering to introduce themselves. But that was fine by me. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I wasn't there to make friends.

Good thing too – the other boys didn't want to be friends with me either.

But there was no avoiding them anymore. After school there was a designated 'playtime', which essentially consisted of twenty-odd boys trapped in a fenced off yard without supervision. None whatsoever.

As you can imagine, 'playtime' essentially devolved into a live action version of _Lord of the Flies_.

There were four boys who pretty much figured that they were in charge; their leader a short, overweight boy with a nose that had clearly been broken at least twice in the past. Then there was a smattering of kids who were not cool enough to be in their gang, but just normal enough to skate by relatively unnoticed. And then there was the inevitable handful of easy targets that were desperately trying to keep their distance to avoid being today's victim.

I knew exactly which group I fitted in to.

I stuck to a corner and tried to make myself as small and insignificant as possible, but my flawless plan didn't work out as hoped.

I was spotted pretty quickly by Boxer, the leader. (And yes, his name was honestly Boxer – I always thought that it was a nickname; turns out that it wasn't) I felt his eyes pick me out of the crowd like a bird of prey; and then he and his crew were marching towards my corner; the other kids parting like the red sea around them. Boxer grinned. "Fresh meat."

If I hadn't have been traumatised, scared out of my mind or mute at that particular moment, I would have pointed out just how cliché that sounded; which probably would have earned me a punch to the jaw. As it was, I settled for trying to glare defiantly at Boxer. I probably looked more adorable than threatening.

"Ain't that the gypsy kid?" Boxer's right hand, Skip asked. "The one on the news?"

"Oh yeah," a third kid, Dean or Dom or Derek or something, agreed. "He's from the circus. His parents got deaded night before last."

I flinched at the cold reminder, which seemed to serve as an invitation for them to continue this line of inquiry. Boxer was grinning like the cat that ate the canary as a whole new world of circus and/or gypsy related jokes opened up before him.

And so the name-calling began. It was just typical, unoriginal stuff – names that now I don't really pay any attention to, but back then cut deeper than I'd like to admit. _Gypsy_ _Trash. Traveller Scum. Dirty_ _Carny._ I'd heard it all before – the Townies often called us these things whenever we'd leave the circus grounds for the odd supply run. It always used to make me mad. They'd love us when we were putting on a show; risking our lives for their amusement. But the moment that we tried to walk among them, we suddenly became unhygienic, second-class citizens.

My parents. My _whole family_. Had _died_ for their entertainment.

I wanted to scream back at Boxer and his crew, to defend my heritage in some way, but my voice still wouldn't work; and I was closer to crying than yelling anyway. I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of breaking me, so I ran.

As Boxer laughed at some derivative name Dean/Dom/Derek had come up with, I darted forward and ducked beneath his arm. Without looking back to see their mildly surprised expressions, I scaled the chain link fence and somersaulted over the top; landing in a roll on the other side.

"We've got a runner!" Boxer yelled like a sports commentator.

I was four blocks away before I stopped and realised what I had just done. I didn't have a clue where I was; I couldn't retrace my steps back to Bristol even if I wanted to. All around me was a cacophony of noise – rush hour traffic, car horns, people on cell phones, sirens, a crying baby, dogs barking in harmony. Grown-ups on the pavement brushed past me like I didn't exist; one man even tried to step on me before cursing and telling me to 'go find my irresponsible parents'.

 _If only I could_ , I wanted to reply.

Emotions already ready running high from Boxer's taunts; I couldn't handle being lost as well. Gotham City was huge and scary and I just wanted somewhere safe to hide. Which is why I darted down the first alley that I saw.

I know, I hear you – an alley in Gotham? What was I thinking? But at the time it was just somewhere quieter than the madness of the street. And, for the first time in days, luck was actually on my side. The alley was empty. Lined with overflowing dumpsters and not smelling so great, but empty.

I wanted to go home.

Not back to Bristol, obviously, but to Haly's. I knew that if Pop Haly could have kept me, he would have done, and though I didn't really get the legal aspect of things I figured that Haly had let me go to Bristol because he had had no choice in the matter. But kids ran away to the circus all the time, right? I knew loads of them back at home. If I could just get back to Haly's I could sneak out of Gotham with them without the social services lady even knowing and everything would be fine.

Well, as fine as everything could be as an orphan.

All I had to do was find the circus – how hard could that be?

Maps didn't mean a whole lot to me back then, so I didn't even bother trying to find one. Instead I scaled the nearest fire escape and climbed up onto the roof, already feeling a little better simply by putting some distance between me and the ground. The apartment building wasn't exactly the tallest in Gotham and didn't afford the best view, but it would do. I hopped onto the parapet; probably looking like a jumper if anyone below bothered to look up, and scanned the horizon.

Admittedly, my nine-year-old logic was simply looking for a triangle of red and yellow that would have to be the Big Top. Shockingly, this didn't work. I couldn't see the whole city, but of what I could see, there wasn't a single dab of bright colour (unless you counted the lurid billboards advertising things that I didn't understand at that age). But that was okay; there were a lot of tall buildings – Haly's was probably just blocked from view.

The train yard was easier to spot. It was the only part of Gotham that I knew, and now that I knew which direction it was in, all I had to do was follow the tracks.

It probably would have been intelligent at this point to return to street level, but I didn't particularly want to go back to the insanity of the people below. Crowds were great when they were watching you perform from a distance and clapping appreciatively – they weren't so great when you were trapped in the middle of them. Besides, I had just come up with a fantastic idea.

How different could rooftop jumping be from Parkour train racing?

As it turns out, not that different. If anything, it was easier. I backed-up for a running start and leapt the first gap easily enough; and with momentum behind me the next few jumps were child's play. There were a few moments where I misjudged the distance and fell short onto rickety fire escapes; which gave me flashbacks that I tried very hard to ignore, but I was crossing the city faster than I ever could have on street level. Probably faster than taking a cab.

The tracks led me right to the train yard, and from there it was simply a case of backtracking the route John and I had taken two days before. I could almost imagine him walking along beside me, laughing and joking as if he wasn't dead and gone.

This close to home, with my imaginary cousin with me for company, I was beginning to let myself believe that things really were going to be okay. And then I turned the final corner and was greeted by a vacant camp site.

At first I figured that I must have taken a wrong turn, and that Haly's was the left before this one, but it wasn't. Patches of dried grass scarred where trailers and tents had been just days before. The remnants of the tape that had marked out the mile to the Big Top blew in the breeze. Forgotten rubbish skittered past like tumbleweeds.

Haly's was gone.

I couldn't believe it. I mean, _now_ I can sort of understand. The circus is a business, a difficult one at that. Tragedy or no, when it is time to move on, they move on. They can't afford to cancel a show. But at the time, I simply felt betrayed.

Pop Haly had left me with a stupid note and a crumpled photograph and vanished.

(I'm pretty sure that this is where my abandonment issues stem from.)

Distraught (heavy on the dis) I dropped to my knees, the tears that I had refused to cry for days burning in my eyes and making my vision blur. I was shaking uncontrollably, my arms wrapped around my stomach as the pain manifested as a physical ache. Images of the family that I would never see again flashed before me, purely to rub salt into the wound.

I didn't have a clue what the frick I was supposed to do next. Where could I go? Back to Bristol? The streets? Sure, I was used to living with little, but I'd never had to survive on my own before. What was I meant to do?

I started wandering aimlessly through the empty camp ground, automatically following the alleys between the pitches as if the trailers were still there. My imagination filled in the gaps in reality, making me instinctively step over where ropes would have tripped me and duck beneath non-existent awnings. I probably looked like a crazy person. I can't say that I overly cared.

About twenty minutes of nostalgic exploration later, my feet began to take me down the familiar route to our trailer. No matter where in the country, or world, that Haly's stopped, the Graysons' trailers were always parked at the end of a T-shaped cul-de-sac, just passed the clowns' changing station and with the best view of the Big Top in camp.

I walked right up to the front door and placed my hand on the plastic window; staring at my reflection as it looked back at me.

And that was when I realised that the trailer was really there and not just a figment of my imagination. I looked to the right to see my Aunt and Uncle's trailer was still there as well. They'd been left behind just like me.

It was a practical thing, I knew – what was the point of carting around the belongings of the deceased? It was hard enough constantly packing up and moving on the rest of the circus, there was no room for excess baggage that there was no one around to use. But I still looked at the abandoned trailers as if they were an intentional gift to me. It was getting dark, the sky threatening rain. Now I had a place to sleep.

A place I could still call home.

The door wasn't even locked; it never was. I don't even think that the trailer ever had one. I just pulled on the handle and slipped inside. It was cold, but it was also comfortingly familiar; and as I stood there and took it all in it felt like a warm hug at the end of a really bad day. Everything was as we had left it, frozen in a time before it had all gone so horribly wrong.

I hadn't properly slept in days, not since that night, and it was in that moment that it decided to catch up with me. Rain began to hammer down on the metal roof, horrendously loud and yet rhythmically soothing. I yawned widely and scrubbed at my eyes, and then climbed into my parents' bed. The covers still smelled of them; the old mattress still moulded to their shapes. I placed a pillow behind my back and pretended it was my Dad, and then rolled up the comforter and hugged it as if it were Mom.

With my eyes closed and my mind tired, it was easy to believe that it had all just been a nightmare. I felt safe and loved, and finally fell asleep.

* * *

_BANG BANG BANG_

I jolted awake as if I had been electrocuted, my breath coming in short gasps as everything caught up to me in an instant. I was still in my family's trailer, tangled in the blankets between the surrogates of my parents; the familiarity grounding me in reality. The rain had stopped and sunlight attempted to break through the blinds, so I figured that I must have slept through the night. But what in the world had woken me up?

 _BANG._ "This it then?" a rough voice asked, the thin metal walls making it sound as if the owner of the deep tones was right outside.

The banging continued as if someone was randomly hitting the side of the trailer, the metallic thump getting louder and closer to the door. I held my breath, my whole body tensed to dive under the bed if the invader decided to turn the handle. Right as a shadow crossed the plastic window though, the banging stopped. The figure turned as if to address someone else. "What else would it be?" the second voice retorted sarcastically, this one sounding a little higher than the first. "Two trailers in da middle'a nowhere just where da boss told us ta look?"

"I's just asking, Benny," The first voice muttered, somewhere between apologetic for the dumb question and miffed at the sarcasm.

"Yeah, well, ask summin a bit smarter next time," The shadow that had to have been Benny replied with a long suffering sigh. He then took a deep drag on his cigarette, the smoke's silhouette dancing up the window. "Might as well as settle in for a long one, Joe. We gonna be here a while."

Neither man seemed interested in actually entering the trailer, which reassured me enough to quietly release the breath that I had been holding. I carefully freed myself from the blankets and climbed out of the bed, my socked feet not making a sound on the carpet. Curious as to why the two strange men were preparing to set up camp right outside my home, I tiptoed up to a window and lifted the blind just enough to get a look outside.

It was fairly obvious which one was Joe and which one was Benny. Their body language gave them away even if physical appearance didn't necessarily agree. Joe, the owner of the deeper voice and simple questions, was big and imposing in build but sat slouched in a lawn chair with his eyes glued to the grass. Benny, on the other hand, stood off to one side chain-smoking, occasionally throwing his colleague derivative looks as if he couldn't believe that he had been sidled with the overgrown lughead.

They seemed familiar to me, although I couldn't peg why. They kind of reminded me of Lennie and George from _Of Mice and Men_ , except these men radiated that distinct 'Bad Guy' aura.

But what were bad guys doing hanging around my family's trailer?

Benny suddenly looked up from where he'd just stomped out a cigarette, glancing at the trailer's window. Right at me. I sucked in a breath and resisted the urge to duck down and hide, knowing that the sudden movement would give me away whereas he might not have noticed the slight hitch in the blind.

"Do ya really think the kid'll come back here?" Joe asked, successfully pulling the slighter man's gaze away from me. Relieved, I turned my back to the window and slid down the wall until I was curled on the floor. And then the words caught up with me. _The kid?_

_Me?_

Intrigued, I was back on my knees and peeking out of the window. Benny just shrugged, already halfway through his next smoke. "That nurse lady said that he'd already run away from Bristol," he replied, referring to Angie from the day before. I briefly felt guilty for running like I did. Nurse Dumas had been nice to me, one of the only people who had. I hoped that I hadn't made her worry. But then again, I figured that the bad guys would have already found me if I hadn't have scarpered, so it was probably for the best.

"Yeah, but will he really come here, though?" Joe continued. He glanced at the trailers behind him as if they might suddenly come alive and eat him. "This place has got ghosts, it has."

I could practically hear Benny roll his eyes. "Sure it has," he said dismissively, before taking another drag on his cigarette and tossing it. "Look, Joe, mebbe the kid shows up here, mebbe he don't. All I knows is, Boss says we gotta stake it out, and whack the brat if he does. Youse want to ask Zucco about his plans, be my guest."

Joe quickly shook his head and sank lower into his lawn chair.

I was a little more focused on the 'whack the brat' part. I'd seen enough cartoons to know what that meant, even if the whole concept of death hadn't really seemed real up until a few days ago. For some reason, the boss wanted me dead – but who even was this Zucco guy? And what had I done to deserve the two-goon army waiting for me?

And then an image of smoke and worn rope flashed across my mind's eye. A loud _snap._

The reason why the two men looked so familiar to me. They had been _there._ In the audience. Along with... along with the man in the suit and fedora and expensive shoes – Zucco – who had been talking to Pop Haly. Who had been _threatening_ Pop Haly.

_"Your merry band of freaks perform some dangerous stunts. It would be a terrible shame if something were to go wrong…"_

_Thud. Thud, thud. Thud._

_Thud._

It hadn't been an accident.

My family was gone, taken from me so suddenly and violently that I hadn't really had time to feel anything but lost and alone. I had been empty inside, just going through the motions because I didn't really know what else I could do. But now I felt something different, something that made my hands curl into fists tight enough to dig my fingernails into my palms. My heart was pounding so loud that I was sure that it could be heard for miles. I was grinding my teeth hard enough to hurt.

I was beyond angry. I was _pissed off._

"It don't matter anyways," Benny was saying, and I realised that I had blocked out part of their conversation as I descended into a sea of red. "There's nothing for the Boss to worry about. The kid ran before the storm. Spent the night on Gotham's streets. Chances are he's dead already."

Benny clearly underestimated my survival skills.

And that just wouldn't do.

Anger still pumping through me like a drug, I climbed to my feet and clambered up onto the counter of the trailer's tiny kitchenette. My parents kept anything remotely dangerous in the cupboard above the sink, even though they probably realised that nothing was truly out of the reach of a Flying Grayson. I found a box of matches with little effort and dropped lightly back onto the carpet; the two men outside still having no idea that their quarry was literally right under their noses.

It wasn't until I had turned on the gas cooker to full and the sickly scent began to fill the confined space that I realised what it was that I was doing. I looked around my home, committing every detail of it to memory, my eyes settling on the family photo besides the bed. Five smiling faces looked back, and in that moment I made them a promise.

I was starting to feel light headed from the gas, so I made the snap decision to grab the photo frame and then climbed back on to the counter to reach the trailer's skylight. With ease I shimmied through and up onto the roof, paying Joe and Benny a brief glance before crawling over to the edge on the other side. With a slightly crazy smile, I took out the box of matches and struck two alight against the side. And then I tossed them through the open skylight.

I didn't realise just how quickly things would go boom.

One moment I was on the edge of the roof, ready to jump clear. The next I was on the grass staring skywards and smelling vaguely of barbecue. Now I realise just how close I had come to frying myself. At the time it was kind of a thrill, and it made the anger and the uncertainty and the fear take a back seat if only for a moment.

Bruised and smoking slightly, I climbed to my feet and surveyed my handiwork. Both trailers were burning; my only home turning to cinders by my own hands. There was no going back anymore, and that was surprisingly fine by me. I had plans.

A low groan sounded from Joe as he struggled back to consciousness, Benny not too far behind. I grinned smugly at them, waiting for the recognition to dawn before I turned and walked away.

I had _big_ plans.


	5. Chapter Five

So, I ended up back at Bristol.

But not by choice, believe me. I had managed to survive a whole three hours on the streets solo, before I got picked up by a cop who recognised me from the news. A short ride in the back of a cruiser later (told you it wasn't the last time) and I was at the central precinct. Where Captain Jim Gordon just happened to work.

The moment that I spotted that ginger caterpillar, I knew that I was screwed.

Don't get me wrong, I liked Gordon. I vaguely remembered him from that night; how he had been nice and tried to help me. But I also knew that there was really only one thing that he could do for me right then.

It was a quiet ride back to Bristol. I was already plotting my next escape – no barred window nor chain link fence would hold me – but then Gordon went and said something that put the brakes on everything.

"You're Uncle's surgery went well."

I had forgotten. I know that it sounds terrible, but up until that sentence was uttered, I had completely blanked out the moment when a paramedic had said that they had found a pulse. My memory of that night was patchy at best, the only thing that remained consistently vivid was the sounds of five bodies hitting concrete. Five.

I had been operating under the belief that my whole family had been killed. That I was entirely alone. But I wasn't.

Ironically, the first thought that popped into my head following that revelation was that Uncle Rick was gonna be so mad when he found out that I'd torched the trailers.

If I had been paying attention though, I would have noticed Gordon hesitating over what to say and how to word things. He purposely kept his eyes on the road as he navigated the cruiser through Gotham's streets; his grip a little too tight on the wheel and his shoulders far too tensed. "He's, he is... he's banged up," Gordon went with, which was clearly an understatement of the truth. "But the doctors say... well, they're doing their best."

I was staring out of the window, still trying to figure out how I was going to explain my newly discovered firebug tendencies to my uncle. How would I tell him that the Fall wasn't an accident? Would Uncle Rick even want to look after me knowing that I'd never be as good as John? That I couldn't replace his dead son?

How would I tell him that it was just us now?

"The doctors said that he could have visitors soon," Gordon continued. "Would you like me to take you?"

I really should have been paying attention. One look at Jim and I would have known instantly that this wasn't actually good news. But I was too caught up in the sudden knowledge that I _wasn't_ the last Flying Grayson. So I just nodded my agreement, and decided to forego my escape plans and stay at Bristol.

The Warden didn't look overly pleased to see me when we arrived back at the home, especially after Gordon went into his office and the two of them had a 'chat' about my unreported missing status. Boxer and his crew were grinning upon my return, but that was most likely only because they had come up with some new material in my absence and were eager to torment me with it.

The only person that seemed genuinely happy to see me was Nurse Dumas. She actually hugged me, probably relieved that Joe and Benny hadn't found me, before holding me at arms length and studying my new street rat appearance.

I still smelled suspiciously of smoke.

* * *

A few days later, one week after the Fall, Gordon kept his promise.

I was waiting by the front window, glaring through the fat rain droplets that ran down the glass, getting excited about every car that passed the building. Eventually, Gordon rolled up in his own town car, wrapped in a trench coat against the practically apocalyptic weather but still pretty much drenched. He offered me a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes, and then led me out to the car. He let me ride up front, and I spent the entire journey studying the city through the rain.

Gotham didn't feel like home to me yet – it never really did, to tell the truth, not even after years of blood, sweat and sacrifice later. There's just something about the place that made me keep my distance; and I'm not talking about the crime or the pollution or the people, but the actual _feel_ of the city. The rest of the family has that bone deep connection that created the odd infatuation that all native Gothamites share, but I was always an outsider. I saw the city differently.

It was an audience that could never be awed or pleased, but still watched you critically, waiting to laugh at your mistakes. It was never going to let us truly win, and I think that in some subconscious way I knew that, even way back then. Never stopped me from trying though.

Gordon talked as we drove, and I vaguely wondered if anyone had ever told him that I supposedly didn't speak English. But then again, he was a smart man and an even better detective. He could probably tell that I understood his words even if I never spoke back. He was telling me all about his daughter, though I suspect that he knew that he didn't exactly have my rapt attention.

I was still under the illusion that everything was going to be magically okay.

Part of me knew that it was overly optimistic, but my nine-year-old logic had decided that because Uncle Rick was alive this nightmare was about to be over. I was aware that he was hurt (badly, if the fragments of memory were anything to go by) but it had already been a week. Surely he was fine by now. Why else would we be going to see him?

I had even packed my bag.

As we drew closer to Gotham Memorial, Gordon grew quiet, sending me furtive glances out of the corner of his eye. I just clutched my backpack a little tighter, ready and willing to go back to Haly's with Uncle Rick.

"Listen, Richard," Gordon said tentatively, breaking the silence that had settled over the car as he put the vehicle in park. "Your uncle, he's... he's very sick. When you go in his room, he's not gonna be how you remember him."

I didn't understand what Gordon was getting at. Or maybe I just didn't want to. Either way, I simply nodded and made to climb out of the car.

A hand on my shoulder stopped me. "Richard, I'm..." Gordon began apologetically, and then sighed. "There are some things that we need to talk about. After you see him. I just want you to know that you're not alone."

Hospitals have never freaked me out, but I understand why some people hate them. There's an aura about them, as if they have spent so long housing the sick and the dying that the buildings themselves have contracted the diseases. As we walked through the too-white halls up to the Intensive Care ward I tried to hold onto my excitement, but a dark sense of something foreboding slowly leached it from me the closer that we got to our destination.

A nurse greeted us with a sad smile and then led the way to a private room a little ways from the nurses' station. Every step felt heavier than the last, even as I kept trying to tell myself that it was okay and that Uncle Rick would be able to fix everything.

And then I saw him.

He was barely even a shell of the man that I remembered. His shaggy black hair was gone and replaced with bandages. His blue eyes were hidden behind taped-shut lids. The normally dark skin was practically translucent and paper thin against atrophied muscles. It was hard to believe that just over a week ago the man in the hospital bed had been a world class aerialist; the strong, self assured, slightly crazy Uncle that always doted on me.

I had frozen at the sight, but I was nudged out of my shock by a gentle squeeze of my shoulder. I glanced back to see Gordon kneeling just behind me and watching me sympathetically. "You don't have to go in," he said quietly, and I realised that I hadn't even made it across the threshold.

As if I had something to prove, I immediately shrugged free of the reassuring grip and marched into the room, my pace only slowing as I reached the side of the bed. Gordon stood and waited by the door, seeming to understand that I needed a moment.

The backpack slipped from my shoulder as I climbed onto the guest chair, all thoughts of happy endings quickly abandoned. I simply sat there for who knew how long, staring at what was left of Uncle Rick and trying to understand. But I couldn't get my head around it. After a while, I looked up at Gordon, asking for an explanation with just a look.

"Your uncle is very sick," the police captain stated as if I didn't already know that just from looking at Uncle Rick. "The doctors have done everything that they can, but his injuries are too extensive. He broke his neck in the fall which has left him paralysed from the chin..." Gordon cut himself off, realising that he was using big words that a kid that didn't speak English most likely wouldn't understand. "He can't move, Richard. He's never going to be able to walk again, might not even be able to talk. He'll never be able to look after you."

I had already figured that out, but hearing it put so bluntly drove the point home.

Gordon sighed heavily, and came and knelt beside my chair, placing his hand on my arm. "I'm so sorry, Richard, but your uncle is unlikely to ever wake up. It's only these machines that are keeping him alive and..." he trailed off, chewing his lip for a moment apprehensively.

"The hospital is very expensive," Gordon explained with a shake of his head, as if he couldn't believe that he was having this conversation. "But a nice man called Mr Wayne has offered to pay the bills. The doctors are telling him that its time to turn off the machines and let your uncle... go to sleep. But Mr Wayne doesn't want to do that unless _you_ do. It's your family, Richard. You can choose."

Gordon fell silent after that, watching me as if trying to gage how much of what he had said I had understood. Eventually he stood and left, shutting the door behind him and leaving me alone with the beeping machines.

My backpack dropped to the floor with a thump, jogging me out of my daze. Absently I reached down and tugged open the zip, my fingers finding the photo frame that I had liberated from my family's trailer. I sat and stared at the picture, relieved that when I looked at my Mom and Dad and Aunt and John I could still remember them happy and laughing. But when my eyes settled on the grinning image of Uncle Rick, all I could see was the skeletal frame swathed in blankets and bandages.

My hands tightened around the frame. The white hot rage that had settled to a simmer while I had believed in the fairy tale, burned with new fury in my stomach.

The glass cracked beneath my fingers.

* * *

By the time that we got back to Bristol, I was a seething mess. I think that Gordon thought that I was trying not to cry though, because he kept patting my arm as he drove and looking at me sympathetically. But I wasn't upset; I was furious _._

Ever since that day, _nothing_ had gone right. My family killed. Abandoned by Pop Haly. Stuck in a stupid home in a strange city surrounded by people that thought I was trash. My only home destroyed by my own hands in a fit of rage. A small glimmer of hope snuffed out like a candle. And then to top it all of, it was now _my_ choice whether my Uncle got to keep breathing or not.

I was wound tight and ready to blow at anything or anyone that dared to come close.

The Warden met Gordon and I at the front door, a fake smile pasted on his face as he exchanged pleasantries with Gotham's finest. I wasn't listening; barely even noticing when Gordon knelt before me and gave me his card, telling me to call him anytime. I just nodded stiffly and walked away, obeying the Warden's orders to join the other kids for 'playtime'.

Halfway between the front door and the backyard I stopped at the hiding spot that I had scoped out during the week and stashed my backpack (the Warden had been telling the truth when he had said that I should hide the things that I wanted to keep – a lesson that I had learned fast at Bristol) and then I slipped out through the back door.

The ruckus of twenty-odd boys playing instantly stilled into silence, every pair of eyes looking my way. Some of the kids were shooting me worried glances as if they were afraid, though I doubt that they were scared of me. Most of the others merely sneered at me condescendingly. It felt like one of those old Western movies where the hero walks out for a duel at high noon, the locals watching curiously for the outcome of the anticipated fight.

And then Boxer and his crew sauntered through the crowd, grinning at me eagerly, and I knew exactly what was coming.

I remember Boxer opening his mouth to speak. What he said though, I have no idea. But it must have tipped my temper from simmering rage to full-on boil, because the next thing that I knew I was seeing red.

I must have blacked out or something, because when I came to again the Warden and two of the bigger kids were dragging me backwards. I struggled in their grip, my breath coming in short gasps that for some reason burned my throat as if I had been screaming. The blood was pounding in my ears, drowning out the shocked whispers from the other kids and making my vision go all cloudy. I didn't have a clue what had just happened. Not until I saw Boxer and his two buddies curled on the ground clutching at various bruised and bleeding body parts.

The adrenaline left me in one fell swoop, the sudden weakness taking the fight right out of me. I became aware of the blood dripping from my nose and the loosed tooth that filled my mouth with a coppery tang. My knuckles throbbed with a vengeance.

"Crazy gypsy," one of the teenagers holding me muttered. At a nod from the Warden, the two bigger kids carried me off like a sack of potatoes back inside and up to Merrick's office. Then they deposited me in a chair and left.

In the silence of the office I finally managed to calm myself down slightly. Which is when I realised that I was scared. Not of Boxer and his crew and the inevitable retaliation. Not of the Warden's likely list of punishments. Not even of being completely alone.

No, I was scared of myself.

I had no idea what I was capable of. Up until a few days before, I wouldn't have thought myself capable of blowing up a trailer and injuring two grown ups. I most definitely wouldn't have considered myself able to win a fight against three kids twice my size. But I was just so angry – insatiably so. Even coming down off of the high of the fight I could still feel the rage burning. I had never felt so out of control before; like I could no longer predict my own actions.

I remember thinking that this was how Bad Guys were made. And I didn't want to _be_ a Bad Guy. It was bad people that had taken my family away from me, turning me into this volatile, emotional mess. Now that was irony for you.

Bad Guys _made_ Bad Guys.

But I wasn't going to let them win like that. I couldn't keep going like this, taking out my anger on whoever or whatever was closest (even if they were bullies who totally deserved a taste of their own medicine). No, I needed one specific outlet. A target.

Zucco.

The question was, how in the world was I going to do it? My one and only lead had been Joe and Benny, but I had no idea where they were now. How was I supposed to track down a Bad Guy powerful enough to have minions, all from a boys home in a city that I didn't know? It seemed impossible, and yet so entirely intrinsic to my continued existence.

I _had_ to. The how and the when were secondary.

* * *

Several hours and a detrimental lecture later, I left the Warden's office with all of my 'privileges' (aka food and clothes and bathroom time) revoked and a warning that any more trouble would result in severe consequences. I can't say that I was overly paying attention to Mr Merrick though, my thoughts were entirely focused on my mission. So much so, in fact, that as I walked back to where I had stashed my bag, I almost missed Boxer leaving Nurse Dumas' office.

We both stuttered to a halt in the hallway, staring each other down. I have to admit that I was mildly satisfied to see the black eye and split lip that I had given the older boy; and judging by the way he was standing, I had kicked him somewhere sensitive as well.

I was waiting for the threat, the _'you'll pay for this – watch your back'_ taunt, but Boxer stayed silent. His head was slightly bowed and his shoulders hunched, a shockingly submissive stance for a bully. I took a step forward. Boxer flinched. And in that moment, I learnt the power of reputation. I had become the psycho kid that could take on the biggest bully in Bristol – and I was _feared_.

I guess what Bats says is true. Criminals really are a superstitious, cowardly bunch.

With a smirk, I sent Boxer running, and _damn_ did it feel good. But then Nurse Dumas stepped out of her office and I dropped the smug grin for a more innocent look. She took one glance at my slightly bruised appearance and immediately beckoned for me to follow her back inside her room. She started chatting away about something as I climbed up on to the counter so that she could wrap my bloody knuckles, but my mind was too preoccupied by other things to listen.

It was as I was staring off into the distance though, that I realised that I was actually looking at a computer. An ancient looking desktop circa 1980, but still, it was something with an internet connection. And if there was one thing that television had taught me, it was that the internet knew everything. Say, for example, where a certain mob boss might like to spend his evenings.

I smiled at Nurse Dumas, knowing that I would be spending a lot of time in her office...


	6. Chapter Six

I should probably begin by explaining that I was not the World's Greatest Hacker of Everything (Particularly Motion Sensors) back when I was nine. Bearing in mind that my experience with computers consisted entirely of the dusty old desktop in Pop Haly's office (that had had a freaking dial-up connection), and the occasional use of the dated PCs at the public libraries I visited...

Yeah, I essentially knew how to use Google, and that was about it. Shockingly, this was not conducive to tracking down mob bosses.

But after a few days of spending every available moment in Nurse Dumas' office, I was beginning to get the hang of things. I had found a guy online who was willing to teach me a few tricks and it turned out that I actually had a knack for code. Pretty soon I was creating some crude back door hacks that were getting me way more information than Google ever could. I had already collected a library of newspaper articles in various languages that mapped out Zucco's unsavoury activities, but it still wasn't what I was after.

I needed to know what the cops knew – and there was only one place that I could find that.

Trouble was, the basic skills that I had learned weren't going to get me into their system. I discovered very quickly that hacking wasn't like how they showed it in the movies, where the geek in question just typed incredibly quickly and broke into highly secured databases in minutes. In fact, it took me three straight days to even get past Gotham PD's firewall and from there I was scuppered by an operating system that seemed purposely designed to make absolutely no sense.

Frustrated by the lack of progress, I was very close to breaking something.

"How's our boy doing?"

I froze, fingers still poised over the keyboard, as the familiar voice of Jim Gordon echoed from outside the office. I listened for footsteps to try and gage how close he and whoever he was talking to was, and how likely it was that they were about to barge in while I had the GCPD's system up on the screen.

"He's doing okay, I think," Nurse Dumas replied, her softer tones placing the two grown ups right outside of the door. But the footsteps had slowed to a standstill, and I figured that I still had a few moments before they came in. They were keeping their voices down, which meant that they wanted to talk about me without my knowing – but the walls of Bristol were incredibly thin. "I've been letting him use my office, to keep him away from the other boys, and I've been trying to help him with therapy. But he's still so... quiet."

A knowing sigh from Gordon. "He's still not talking?"

"Not a word," Nurse Dumas said sadly, and I could imagine her shaking her head sympathetically, even as I kept my attention on the screen. I was beginning to get an idea of how to use the GCPD's database search without pulling up reams of completely irrelevant files. Whoever designed this thing needed firing, ASAP. "At first I thought it was because he didn't understand what I was saying to him – his file says that he doesn't speak English – but when you talk to him, you can tell that he's listening."

Gordon gave a short laugh. "That boy is a lot smarter than he lets on. A lot smarter than he even should be considering his lack of a formal education."

"You're telling me," Nurse Dumas agreed. "I let him use my computer, figured that he'd maybe play some games or something to pass the time, but no. I've seen him on websites in languages that I couldn't even identify, let alone understand. And then I gave him a notebook as part of his therapy; hoping that if he couldn't talk about what happened then maybe it would help to write things down in a journal – and he started writing in these weird symbols!"

"Symbols?"

I paused in my typing again, briefly paying attention to the conversation about me outside. The silhouette of Nurse Dumas on the office door's smoked out window waved a hand. "Yeah," she replied. "I think it's Russian or something; the Cyrillic alphabet, maybe?"

Perhaps I should interject and explain a little of my heritage here. I come from two very different lineages and a multilingual household. My Dad and his brother and a couple of generations before them were _Gadjo_ (meaning Roma in ethnicity, but not necessarily lifestyle) after they broke away from their troupe in the 1920's and joined Haly's circus as the Flying Graysons. This is where the John and Richard naming system started (so apparently, my great, great, great Grandfather was the Robin Hood nut!) in order to make us sound less foreign. But my Grandfather still liked to uphold certain traditions, which is why my first language is still Romani.

The thing is, Romani is purely a spoken language, and as such there was nothing to be taught in terms of reading and writing. Which was fine considering that I was born and raised to be a trapeze artist.

My mother, on the other hand, was born Mariya Volkov, and was from a long line of Russian gymnasts, a lot of which were Olympic medal winners. My Mom was set to win the next Gold when Haly's Circus rolled into town. I'm pretty sure that the story my parents told me was a lot simpler than the truth, but basically my Mom didn't want to just do what her family demanded of her anymore, and so when she met my Dad she decided to run away with the circus; changing her name to Mary Grayson when they got married.

My Mom learned Romani and my Dad learned Russian and I grew up hearing both. But my Mom had come from a well educated family (she's where I inherited my intelligence from) and as much as she loved the simpler life of the circus, she didn't want me to be completely illiterate. And so she had taught me to read and write. In Russian.

It was handy for jotting down notes on mob bosses that I wanted to take down without anyone being able to read it.

Gordon gave a thoughtful _humph_ in response to Nurse Dumas' deduction, and I returned my focus to the computer screen. I had finally found the file on Zucco that I was after, but when I opened it all that it contained was a case number and reference code. The outdated computer system had led to me to an _even_ _more_ antiquated system.

The Zucco investigation was only in _hard copies_.

I very nearly brained myself with the keyboard in annoyance, but Gordon chose that moment to enter the office. Just as the handle began to turn I had milliseconds to shut down and erase any and all evidence of my hacking and pull up a game of solitaire that I pretended to be enthralled in.

"Hi, Richard," Gordon greeted with the sad smile that had become all too familiar. "You ready to go, kiddo?"

* * *

The drive to Gotham Memorial and subsequent walk through the quiet wards was sombre, reminding me of everything that I was trying to forget as I threw myself wholeheartedly at the Zucco investigation. But now here it was, the day that I had been dreading since Gordon had first spoken to me about my Uncle's condition. It was time to make my decision.

How the frick was I meant to decide whether or not Uncle Rick lived or died? It was too big for me, too huge. This was a grown-up's decision, not a kid's. How could someone possibly expect me to make this choice?

Gordon led me into Uncle Rick's room, past the gaggle of well-meaning nurses that watched me sympathetically and a group of official-looking people in suits. I wasn't really paying them over-much attention though; all my thoughts and indecisive emotions focused entirely on the broken man in the hospital bed. Uncle Rick looked even worse than he had last time – thinner, like he had been vacuum-packed, and even paler than before.

The only family that I had left was vanishing before my eyes.

Gordon left me on my own for a while, excusing himself quietly while I stared dimly at Uncle Rick. Every so often someone would stop by the doorway and look at me expectantly for a moment, before moving on when my silence apparently unnerved them. I knew what they were waiting for. They were waiting to see how I would choose for this limbo to end. I didn't have an answer for them.

I didn't want to kill my Uncle; he was all that I had left and I wanted to hold onto that with both hands and never let go. There was always the chance that he might wake up one day – that happened, right? And maybe the doctor's were wrong and he might be able to walk and talk and be Uncle Rick again, who was I to take away that chance from him? But still, some small part of my conscience told me that I was just being selfish. Keeping the shell of Uncle Rick alive and suffering with the small hope that one day he would be able to save me from the hell that my life had become.

"Hi, Richard," Gordon said quietly, jolting me out of my musings. I looked up to find the police captain accompanied by a man in a suit. It took me a moment to recognise him as the man that I had unsuccessfully tried to pickpocket that night. "This is Mr Wayne, he'd like to talk to you, if that's alright?"

Gordon apparently took my petrified look as a yes, and then left again. I almost got up and ran after him – I didn't want to hang out alone with the scary man that was responsible for the now-yellow bruise on my wrist. What if he wanted revenge for my attempt at thievery? But then it dawned on me that it was Mr Wayne who was paying my Uncle's hospital bills and if he had really wanted me hurt that was kind of a backwards way of doing it. So instead I slouched back in my seat and tried to ignore him.

Bruce cleared his throat awkwardly and looked as if he was about to try and start a conversation, but he quickly faltered and fell back into silence. Years later I would understand that this meant that Bruce didn't know how to approach a subject tactfully and needed me to start him off, but back then I just sat there and let him suffer. I had other things to worry about.

After another few moments of just sitting there, Bruce decided to stand, walking to the end of Uncle Rick's bed. I tensed defensively, ready to shove the stranger away from my uncle if there was even the slightest sign of intent, but Bruce simply picked up the medical chart and then sat back down in the chair opposite me.

Now I was watching him as he flicked through the pages, noting his body language. His face remained impassive, his blue eyes flicking back and forth as he read through the notes; the odd shift in his seat the only obvious signs of his discomfort. But there was something odd about him, I noticed. His posture was rigid, too straight-backed for someone who lived the easy life of a billionaire. There was a mostly-concealed bruise around his right eye, which again, didn't fit. But what really stood out was his expression. His features were set, controlled, the beginnings of a wrinkle forming between his eyes from his constant frown. He looked as if he had never smiled once in the last bazillion years.

This was a guy that wasn't afraid of anything; and yet for some reason he seemed nervous, on edge. At first I thought it was because of whatever he was reading about Uncle Rick's condition, but no. I'm pretty sure that in that moment, Bruce Wayne was scared of _me_.

Now wasn't that an ironic turn of events?

"You're uncle suffered an acute subdural haematoma," Bruce said suddenly, breaking the silence. I blinked at him, telling him without words that I had no idea what that meant. "The impact shattered part of his skull and the fragments tore through tissue creating several bleeds on the brain. Even without the spinal fractures its possible that the brain damage would have paralysed him anyway."

I sat there and stared at Bruce, wondering where the frick he was going with this.

"He landed on his left side; breaking his arm in three places – the damage to his wrist is irreparable even with years of surgery and PT. He has a broken clavicle and six cracked ribs. One of which punctured a lung."

It would take several years of hard work on my part to eventually teach Bruce tact. But there was also something refreshing about the blunt way that he was stating the facts. Nurse Dumas had avoided the subject in her one-sided talks in therapy, Gordon had tried to tame the details, but Bruce? Bruce was just telling it like it was. As if he were speaking to an adult. Treating _me_ like an adult.

"The ventilator is breathing for him," Bruce continued, glancing at the array of machines surrounding Uncle Rick's bed before returning his focus to the medical charts. "He's being fed through one tube and relieved through a catheter. Dialysis. Transfusions. His heart is being regulated with a pacemaker..."

I got the picture.

Bruce looked up at me for a moment, read my expression, and put the chart away. The silence returned like an old friend; broken only by the _hiss, click_ of the ventilator and the rhythmic beat of the heart monitor.

I may not have entirely understood everything that Bruce had said (my English still wasn't exactly brilliant) but I got the general idea. My uncle had lost all capacity to do _anything._ Simple bodily functions required just to continue living were purely being provided by the machines. Part of me was already grieving for Uncle Rick the same way that I felt the loss of Mom, Dad, Aunt Karla and John; as if his soul had already moved on with them, and this shell that I refused to let go off was really as empty as it seemed.

But what if there was still a chance? However slim? Wasn't that possibility _worth_ holding on to?

"I lost my parents too, when I was your age."

I glanced up at Bruce, who was looking a little stunned himself at what he had just said. He was shuffling in his seat again, his discomfort shining through even more obviously than before; as if he were walking a minefield and not talking to a nine-year-old. He noticed me watching and instantly stilled his tells; something that most people can't do. Again, odd – but I didn't pay it much mind.

I looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

Bruce avoided my eyes and chose to stare instead at his clasped hands. His tone became quiet and I felt as if I were being privileged with some huge secret. "One night, we were walking to the car. Just the three of us. A man, he came out of the shadows and demanded that my parents hand over anything valuable. And then. And then he shot them."

It was a succinct telling of the story; almost clinical, but there was something about the way that Bruce spoke that belied everything that he was refusing to acknowledge with words. I would later learn from Alfred that this was the first time that Bruce had freely spoken about _that_ night since he was forced to see a therapist when he was twelve.

Maybe _that_ was why Bruce was afraid of me.

He sighed as if trying to rid himself of the freshly surfaced memories, before his eyes flickered back to my uncle. I half expected him to tell me how he understood what I was going through and how hard he could imagine my decision to be. I was waiting for the lie that _one day it would get better_. But that wasn't Bruce.

"It's your decision," he said instead, the words somehow reassuring even as they reminded me of why we were even having this one-sided conversation. "Because he is your family. That won't change, whatever you choose to do."

I sank back in my chair, chewing my lip until it bled under the onslaught. But I didn't feel quite so overwhelmed as I had when I first walked in the room. It was still a huge decision, literally life or death – a grown-up's choice. But Bruce had helped me to understand something. Witnessing what I had – losing what I had... I _was_ grown-up. That's why he had allowed me to make the decision.

But what decision to make?

I looked up and met Bruce's eyes across the gurney where my uncle lay between us, my uncertainty plastered as clear as day on my face. And then my gaze travelled back to Uncle Rick, who purely continued to exist because of the intervention of modern medicine. What would _he_ want, I wondered.

Bruce answered quietly, as if he had read my mind. "He'll never fly again, Richard."

Not move. Not talk. Not wake up. He would never _fly_ again. Not trapped in that shell. And that was what made the decision for me, allowing me to speak for the first time since the Fall.

"Turn it off."


	7. Chapter Seven

So, the decision had been made.

Gordon and the doctors and the lawyers had all been informed and the date set for a week's time. My head and my heart still couldn't decide on what I was feeling – part of me just wanted to switch the machine off then and there and let Uncle Rick rest. The rest of me was dreading the approaching date because that would mean that it was _truly_ over. No slim chance of Uncle Rick waking up – no last minute miracle. Just the the two remaining family members whittling down to one.

The last Flying Grayson.

And that was a title that I had _never_ wanted to bear.

As Gordon drove us back through the constant drizzle that blanketed the city towards Bristol, I tried to get my thoughts and emotions to reconcile. I was upset; but also... also a little... _relieved...?_ now that the weight had been lifted slightly, but that just made me mad at myself. And that just left me a confused mess.

But I couldn't spend the foreseeable future agonising over a choice already made. It would have driven me crazy. I might have ended up lashing out again, and I couldn't allow that.

No, what I needed was a distraction.

Barbara says that its an unhealthy coping mechanism that I have; the whole distancing myself either emotionally or physically (or both) from whatever it is that I don't want to deal with. I say that its a great way to get things done without getting lost in the darkness that comes with a lifestyle like ours. She says that I run away. I say that I'm running toward something.

And wasn't that the trick? To keep moving. Always looking forward, never back.

So I stopped thinking about Uncle Rick and the decision and the near-constant _hiss, click_ of the ventilator and the beeping of the heart monitor that seemed permanently ingrained into my psyche. I decided to turn my focus onto a problem that I was more likely to be able to solve – like how I was going to get my hands on the hard copies of the Zucco investigation.

Though we were riding in Gordon's own car, he still had a stick-on roof siren stashed on his dashboard for emergencies, and his car stereo had been replaced with a police radio. As we drove, the sound of the rain hammering on the windows practically washed out the static-ridden conversations that batted back and forth across the bandwidth, but Gordon seemed to understand it as he occasionally nodded along or winced, depending on what was said.

I tried to listen too, but between the garbling of the connection and every-other message being a random code, I couldn't keep up. (I've always thought that the radio was an ineffective form of communication – give me an earbud or a mind link any day.)

Instead I tuned out the background noise of _'10-71 on Moench and 7th'_ or the _'187'_ s and _'281'_ s that came across the line. There were even calls about Penguins being loose and a Poison Ivy outbreak in Robinson Park.

...

(What can I say, I didn't really know about super villains back then – I just figured that Gotham was a really weird city. I wasn't wrong, was I?)

No, I was thinking about the logistics of trying to find the central precinct, and then somehow getting there on foot without getting grabbed by a cop again. Over the past week or so I had been trying to learn the layout of the city; every time Gordon drove me anywhere I would spend the journey looking out of the window trying to memorise street names and identifying landmarks, but I was a long ways from being anything but geographically challenged. The only way that I'd be getting where I wanted to go would be if someone gave me a ride –

"Dammit!" Gordon cursed, disrupting my train of thought. We were literally a few streets away from Bristol when Gordon pulled over and turned up the volume on the police scanner. I didn't have a clue what was going on, but whatever the captain was listening to, it was making him more and more agitated. He picked up the radio and barked an order, before tossing it aside again. He sat there, thinking for a moment, before throwing me a sideways look. And then he restarted the engine and continued the drive to Bristol.

"What's wrong?" I asked quietly.

Gordon blinked in surprise at hearing me speak, but quickly schooled his features in order to not discourage me. "Just some bad guys doing bad things," he replied with a tired sigh.

I chewed my lip thoughtfully for moment. "I could walk. If you have to go. I know the way from here."

Gordon flashed me a half-smile at my simple language (I could _understand_ English relatively well, but not having actually ever really spoken it, my own grammar was pretty crappy). "Nah, it's alright, kiddo," he said. "I want to speak to Mr Merrick quickly, but then I'll need to get back to the station. I know that I said that we would talk about things..."

"It's okay," I interrupted, not really wanting to talk about Uncle Rick and the arrangements that would need to be made anyway. Besides, I had just come up with a fantastic idea.

I had found my ride to the GCPD.

A few minutes later, Gordon parked the car in front of Bristol's front gate and together we went inside. The Warden was waiting for us, a falsely sympathetic expression pasted across his features as he welcomed me 'home'. Gordon saw right through it, but shook Merrick's hand regardless and asked to go into the latter's office. I thanked Gordon for helping me and then waited for the two men to disappear behind closed doors.

Perfect.

The hallways were empty that time of the evening as all of the other boys were busy enjoying the fine dining that Bristol had to offer, so I barely even had to sneak around. I found the hidey-hole where I had stashed my backpack and research materials on Zucco, and quickly selected what I would need to take with me. Over the past week or so I had started collecting (okay, _stealing_ ) various supplies – anything that I thought would be useful at some point. Such as the screwdriver a visiting handyman had _uh_ , _left_ _behind._

And then it was just a case of getting back outside. The front door wasn't locked at that time of the day, but some genius had decided to fit the catch really high up so that small children couldn't open it. Small children that weren't former circus acrobats, that is.

Out in the evening air it was just beginning to get dark, but the street lamps had yet to flicker on their timers, meaning that there was just enough shadow for me to get by unnoticed. I scarpered to the back end of Gordon's car and crouched beside the tailgate, taking my liberated screwdriver to hand. I sent a silent apology to the police captain, and then used the screwdriver as an impromptu bump key. Inserting the flat head into the lock, I threw all of my weight into hammering the handle with a slight twist; the trunk lid opening with a quiet _pop_.

Where did I learn to break into cars, you ask? Probably around the same place that I learned to pickpockets.

The front door to Bristol opened just as I rolled into the car's trunk; the _thunk_ of the lid closing masked by Gordon closing the door behind him. I lay there in the dark, surrounded by paperwork and assorted junk, listening to Gordon mumble to himself about self righteous care home owners that didn't give a damn about kids. And then the engine turned over and I settled in for an uncomfortable ride to the GCPD.

* * *

I waited a good five minutes after the car stopped and Gordon left before I made my exit. It was impossible to open the trunk from the inside, so I used the tiny opening created by turning the middle of the back seat into an armrest. From there I simply had to unlock the passenger door and I had arrived at my destination.

But that was actually as far as my master plan had gone. I knew what I _needed_ to do – get into the file room, find the box on Zucco, and get out – but the 'how' was still an issue. I had been inside the precinct before, when the officer had picked me up and handed me over to Gordon; but I hadn't really seen beyond the main bullpen and the captain's office. I had to get a look inside and get a feel of the layout, but I couldn't exactly walk right through the front door.

Unless of course, I could.

The trick to getting away with being an unaccompanied minor was not to _look_ like an unaccompanied minor. If you seem like you're with an adult, people don't ask questions and you become practically invisible. All I needed was a psuedo-parent and I was golden.

It was pretty much dark by the time that I spotted a good mark, and still raining, making me shiver in the thin hoodie that I was wearing. A banged-up jalopy squealed down the road and double-parked right in front of the main doors to the precinct, immediately drawing my attention. A woman climbed out; completely frazzled and looking as if she had gotten dressed in a hurry, three small children tumbling out after her and complaining loudly. As they hurried up the front steps, I slipped out of the shadows; simultaneously pulling down my hood and slipping on a pair of glasses that I had stolen from a kid at Bristol.

(So it wasn't the best disguise, but hey – it works for Superman!)

Tagged onto the end of the family I went completely unnoticed, even by the other kids who were busy being the perfect distractions. The moment that they stepped across the threshold, every pair of tired and frustrated eyes turned to glare at the owners of the whining voices, whereas I went completely ignored. The mother marched right up to the front desk and started yelling, leaving the kids to their own devices, and I casually wandered off.

The bullpen was an open space right next to the waiting area that was easy to walk into and still be in sight of my 'parent'. The square-shaped room was packed with rows of desks like a classroom, thin gullies running down either side and the centre to allow access to the offices that lined two sides like an 'L'. In the far corner where two sides met was a corridor that led deeper into the building; a helpful sign on the wall next to it telling me that that was where I needed to go.

I glanced back at the mother who was getting very into the desk Sargent's face, demanding to speak to his supervisor about posting bail for her husband. In her stressed-out state she was barely paying any attention to her kids who were running riot in the waiting area. No one was looking at me, so I took the chance and walked nonchalantly through the bullpen and down the corridor.

There was clearly something else going on in the precinct as the cops that hurried past me didn't even glance at me suspiciously; and my distraction and cover story wasn't _that_ good. Uniforms and plain-clothed detectives alike were running around impatiently and getting angry on the phones with people, everything about their body language screaming panicked and stressed. But it was working entirely in my favour so I didn't question my good luck.

Halfway down the corridor, the police station became a rabbit warren, the hallway forking off in four different directions. Thankfully, there was a stairway to my left that led up; a sign declaring Roof Access, as well as down, to the basement. And where better to keep a dusty file room than in the basement?

Eager now that I was so close to my goal, I practically ran down the stairs. And hey presto, I found myself in a huge subterranean space filled floor to ceiling with shelves of file boxes, among which the Zucco files were waiting. There was just one, _teeny_ _tiny_ problem.

The area was fenced off, the only access a gate with an electronic lock that only opened with a keycard.

I couldn't pick that lock.

My temper flared briefly, a nearby chair taking the brunt of my anger before I regained control. I couldn't allow myself to just lash out, that wouldn't _fix_ the problem. No, I had to stop and think about things logically for a moment; and a solution would present itself.

"Hey, kid!" a voice called, and I looked up to see a cop coming out of the file room, a box wedged under one arm and his free hand slipping a keycard into his pocket. I almost grinned, before I realised that I had totally just been caught. "What are you doing down here?"

And wasn't that a valid question? "Uh," I flubbed initially, before my brain caught up. "I needed the bathroom."

The officer raised an eyebrow, but I just looked up at him innocently and the suspicion melted off his face. "Well, it's not down here, kid," he replied with a half-smile. "Where's your mom and dad, eh?"

I shrugged and pointed at the ceiling, which the officer took to mean upstairs and not in heaven. He gently led me by the shoulder and took me back through the quiet corridor and out into the mania of the bullpen. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that my 'parent' was still where I had left her at the front desk, still loudly arguing her case. I pointed at the mother, and the officer tried to hide his eye-roll, before kneeling down before me. "You shouldn't go wandering off on your own," he advised. "Not in this city."

I nodded and thanked the officer, before turning and heading towards my 'parent'. I paused in the waiting area for a moment, until I felt the officer's eyes stop watching me, and then I walked right out the front door. As I reached the bottom step, I held up the coveted keycard that I had lifted from the officer and grinned.

Now all I needed was a way back in.

* * *

Naturally, I chose the roof.

I waited for full night to fall in the hopes of the station becoming quieter; my prayers answered when about thirty minutes later seemingly the entirety of the precinct ran out to their cars and the parking lot emptied in a disco of blue lights and sirens. Whatever had gotten Gordon riled up and set the bullpen abuzz had to have been pretty damn big to garner that kind of response, but again, I just saw it as an opportunity.

Wandering down the alley behind the station I found a fire escape, the ladder retracted too high up for a normal kid to reach. But I just took a running start and somersaulted onto a dumpster and flipped easily onto the lowest platform. From there it was a simple climb up four storeys, pausing briefly at the top to make sure that the coast was clear before hopping over the parapet.

Once I was on the rooftop, I took my trusty screwdriver to hand and snuck over to the door, which essentially looked like a small shack poking out of the asphalt. I crouched down before the lock, quickly realising that my crude bump key was never going to work. I had a couple of hairpins that I had borrowed from Nurse Dumas hooked on to my jeans' pocket that would do the job, but before I had even finished the thought, I heard voices coming from the other side of the door.

I had a split second to pick my hiding place as the thuds of boots climbing the stairs got closer.

As the handle started to turn, I darted to my feet, quick and silent, not having a chance to go any further than a few steps. I literally hid beside the door, my back pressed against the wall and my grip on the screwdriver tightening instinctively, ready for a fight.

The door opened, the artificial light from the stairway spilling across the roof and casting two long shadows. I relaxed minutely when I recognised one of the figures as Gordon and realised that the two of them were heading away from me. But the adrenaline was still pumping, making me hyper-aware of everything. I took in their conversation, their destination, the cool wind and the lightening rain.

And the fact that the door was closing, trapping me on the rooftop.


	8. Chapter Eight

At the very last second, I stuck out my arm, the screwdriver wedging itself between door and frame and keeping it from closing.

"Why do you do this?" a voice that I didn't recognise asked Gordon, and I blinked around the corner to see a female detective in a trench coat eyeing the police captain critically. "You know that it's bad for your reputation. _He's_ bad for your career."

Gordon gave a sardonic chuckle. "Yeah, but he's _great_ for Gotham."

"Are you sure about that?" the detective asked. "I don't remember there being half as many crazies before the Bat showed up. And now I'm writing about a mob boss with a bird fetish in my case reports. You ever have to do that back in Chicago?"

"No, I didn't," Gordon shook his head. "But it could be worse. We could have _Captain_ _Cold_ or _Weather_ _Wizard,_ or the freaking _Pied Piper_ like in Central, Montoya."

This time it was the detective, Montoya, who laughed. "Yeah, well at least their 'hero' has good press and a working relationship with the CCPD. We get to stand in the rain on a rooftop waiting to see if the Bat answers to a light shining in the sky. Might as well be sending smoke signals. I mean, the Bat's got all these gadgets, right? And he's never heard of a _cellphone?"_

I watched curiously as Gordon knelt beside the biggest lamp that I had ever seen, the machine giving a loud whir before stuttering to life. Instantly a huge circle of yellow appeared on the clouds, the unmistakable silhouette of a bat looming over the city. At the time, I didn't actually know who the Batman was. Sure, I had heard of Superman (who hadn't?) and Wonder Woman was real popular in Europe; but Batman was more of a local legend. He wouldn't really gain any recognition outside of Gotham until the Justice League formed a few months later.

"I gotta ask," Montoya said as she stared up at the signal. "Is that his ego, or yours?"

Gordon chuckled again as he stood up. "Probably both," he admitted. "But you've gotta understand, Renee, that it's not just a dramatic way of getting in touch, it's a deterrent. That light in the sky reminds criminals that Batman's out there, and that scares them way more than a couple of black and whites."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

"You're a good cop, and a great detective, Montoya," Gordon replied. "You know just by talking to someone whether they're a good guy or a bad guy. So when Bats shows up – you tell me."

With Gordon and Montoya preoccupied with their night sky vigil, I took the opportunity to quietly ease open the door and slip inside, letting the door shut with a subdued _click_ behind me. My sneakers barely made a sound as I hurried down the stairs, keeping alert for any other unexpected surprises.

Considering that most of the station had emptied out earlier, I figured that the only issue that I would really have would be the security cameras. I had taken off my borrowed glasses earlier, as the prescription had been giving me a headache, so I pulled up my hood to hide my face as I snuck down the steps. I know that I looked incredibly suspicious, but I was nine and thought it was the perfect disguise. Thankfully, I didn't meet a single soul en route to test it though.

It didn't take me long to get down to the basement. The low light provided by the hanging striplights cast everything in an odd shade of green, making the stacks of boxes look strangely surreal. I walked right up to the chain link fence and craned my neck to try and double check that the room was empty, but it was nigh on impossible to see beyond the first few rows. If I did accidentally bump into anyone, I'd just have to run _really_ fast.

(I'd get better at actually planning things later)

As promised, the keycard got me through the gate with a happy beep. No alarms suddenly went off, so I figured that I was in the clear. A camera peered down at me from the corner of the ceiling, so I pulled my hood lower over my face, and then vanished into the labyrinth.

And I am not exaggerating. The GCPD file room _was_ a maze. I thought that their computer system was bad – it was nothing compared to this. The shelves themselves were in relatively logical rows that used up every available inch of the oddly-shaped space; but the order in which the file boxes were loaded? Yeah, not so logical.

I had memorised the case number that I was looking for, and I managed to find the section it was _supposed_ to be in relatively quickly, but apparently it hadn't been put back in the right place. Ultimately, it took me the best part of an hour to track the damn thing down, and by then my patience was running thin.

The Zucco investigation, case number GOT104706, was situated on the top shelf, about seven ft off the ground. Which was actually the most convenient thing that had happened since I had crossed the file room's threshold. With barely any effort I scaled the shelving, and then settled into a suspended side split spanning the aisle. With my hands free it was easier to delve into the box and figure out what was useful enough to take and what could be left behind.

I spent maybe another twenty minutes just hanging up in the air reading, before I decided upon taking a thick folder full of case notes and photos and shoving them into my backpack. From what I could tell, the GCPD had quite a bit of evidence on Zucco for a whole variety of different crimes that I couldn't even hope to pronounce. But I didn't care about any of that – I just wanted Zucco to pay for what he did to my family.

And he would. Just as soon as I figured out my exit strategy.

With the files stashed in my backpack and the box back exactly as I'd found it (if a little lighter) I descended from my perch and landed lightly on the concrete. I retraced my steps back to the gate, dropping the stolen keycard on the floor so that it would look as if the kindly officer had simply dropped it rather than had a nine-year-old steal it. (Because that would be embarrassing.)

Luck was still on my side as I made my way back up the stairs to the roof. I had considered going out the front door, but there was likely to still be at least a few cops hanging around the bullpen and I didn't have a 'parent' to hide behind; which left me with the same way out that I had come in. I just had to hope that Gordon's rooftop meeting with the Batman hadn't overrun.

At the top of the stairs I crouched down and pressed my ear to the door, listening for voices over the sound of the rain. It was hard to tell with the weather and the fact that the signal was a relative distance away from the door, but I could just make out the low drone of maybe three voices, though the actual words were snatched away by the wind.

Which left me with a choice – go back down and hope to find another exit without getting caught, or chance the roof and pray that Gordon and Montoya were too involved in their conversation to notice.

I went with the latter. It may not have been the smartest move I'd ever make, but at least that way I _knew_ the risks. Taking the hairpins to hand that I hadn't had a chance to use earlier, I managed to pick the lock in an impressive thirty seconds. Wincing as the door opened with a too-loud _click_ , I slipped silently out into the rain.

"We've got one of Penguin's men in custody," Gordon was saying, the conversation carrying now that it wasn't blocked by a door. I immediately ducked round the side of the wall where I had hidden before, taking a quick peek around the corner at the rooftop gathering. "His wife came in earlier trying to post bail, but we've got Dickinson stonewalling her until we can get round the lawyer the Public Defenders Office sent in. He knows something about what went down tonight; it could give us what we need to get into the Iceberg Lounge and search the place."

"I'll talk to Penguin," a gruff voice answered.

And that was when I got my first look at Batman. He was admittedly impressive in his black kevlar and wind-whipped cape, if not a little intimidating. But even though I figured that the scary bat theme was designed with the intention of instilling fear, my initial thought was that it was actually kinda goofy. But then Batman glared right at where I was hiding, that eerily familiar stare making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

So maybe the Bat _was_ scary. Just a little.

"You still think that Penguin had nothing to do with it, don't you?" Montoya asked, drawing that terrible glare away from me and onto herself. I breathed a sigh of relief as their conversation continued, until I realised that my fire escape exit strategy was on _their_ _side_ of the roof. There was no way that I could get to it without them seeing me.

Which meant that I was back to being stuck on the roof, but _this_ time with incriminating evidence in my backpack and the goddamn _Batman_ a few feet away. Fantastic.

I ended up sat curled at the base of the wall, getting progressively more and more wet as the fricking rain still continued to fall. I'm pretty sure that it was getting heavier just to spite me. All I could do was eavesdrop on the conversation, learning all about Penguin's various criminal operations and newly arising turf issues with some guy in a Black Mask.

"So I guess we'll..." Montoya trailed off, as she glanced back to find the Batman mysteriously missing. "Where'd he go?"

Gordon chuckled. "He does that. Leaves you talking to yourself before you realise that he's vanished. You get used to it."

"Well that's just rude."

That made Gordon full-on laugh as he leaned down to turn the signal off before the pair of them began heading back towards the stairwell. I shuffled further back to ensure that I wouldn't be seen, as Gordon paused at the door to find his key. "So, what did you think?"

There was a silence as Montoya pondered her answer for a moment, broken only by the clicking of the lock. "He's a good guy," she determined, before adding, "A good guy with _serious_ issues."

"He's that alright," Gordon agreed.

And I can testify that they weren't wrong about that.

* * *

Alone on the roof of the GCPD, I realised the one last thing that I had neglected to plan for. How the in the world was I going to get back to Bristol?

The building was low compared to most of those around it, affording me a pretty crappy view of the city. I looked in every direction, trying to figure out which way I was supposed to go; looking for the landmarks that I had noticed on my drives with Gordon. But typically, I couldn't see anything. I was lost.

Maybe I should have just gone back to street level and found myself a cop (but how would I explain what I was doing this far away from Bristol?). Maybe Gordon would have been understanding and given me a ride (that is until he realised the lock on his trunk was broken). I even pondered stealing a wallet and paying for a cab (I could come up with some creative story as to what a nine-year-old was doing on the streets at night, right?) But eventually I settled for just picking the most likely direction and hoping for the best.

I needed some practice hopping rooftops anyway.

The first hurdle came when the building a block south of the GCPD (the direction that I had chosen) was too far for even me to jump. But there was a cable that spanned the narrow road – nowhere near strong enough to take my weight now, but perfect for a kid. I contemplated testing my tightrope walking skills (which are non-existent, FYI) before deciding that that was just stupid, and went with monkey-crawling instead.

Putting my faith in whoever had installed that cable, I leaned over the edge of the parapet, grabbed the thick wire with both hands and then dropped so that I was dangling four storeys above the ground. It held, amazingly, and I took two paces as if I was on the monkeybars, before swinging my legs up and hooking the cable behind my knees. And then it was even easier than scaling the ropes to the centre platform as I slid hand-over-hand to the other side. Finishing with a theatrical flip ( I _was_ raised in show business) I landed lightly on the opposite roof.

"That was some impressive stuff, kitten."

I froze at the unfamiliar voice, before looking up to find a women smiling slyly at me. I may have been at the age where girls still had cooties, but even I could recognise beauty when I saw it. Not an inch of her lithe body was hidden by her skin-tight leather catsuit; the gloves of which were tipped with claws and a whip hung curled at her waist. Her dark hair was tucked inside a matching hat topped with cat ears, a pair of goggles perched on her head. I give you Selina Kyle, everyone. World renowned thief.

At first I thought that she was referring to my awesome roof-hopping skills, but then her smile grew wider. "Stealing from a police station for your first heist?" she whistled. "Now _that's_ brazen."

"I, uh, didn't..." I began to deny, but Selina cut me off.

"You need to work on your exit strategy," she pointed out matter-of-factly, which I couldn't exactly deny. "But you definitely have potential." She crouched down before me and extended her hand to shake. "Selina. My friends call me Catwoman."

 _Another one?_ I couldn't help but think.

Now don't get me wrong, I was born and raised in the eccentricities of the circus. I was used to the flamboyance of costumes and sequins and dubious stage names; but even I was a little weirded out by Gotham's penchant for animal-themed weirdos. 'Superman' made sense to me – more than a man, _super_ man – and 'Wonder Woman' was clearly just going for alliteration, but Batman? Penguin? Gotham could give Haly's a run for its money for oddities and freaks. But I kept all that to myself and shook Selina's hand. "Why Catwoman?" I asked curiously.

"Because I like cats," Selina replied with a laugh. And then she stood and wandered over to the parapet where a battered tabby cat was sitting and glaring at me. Selina scratched him behind the ears, sending the street cat into a purring fit. "They're tough. Independent. Agile. Clever. Sly. They're the natural grifters of the animal kingdom – kindred spirits, if you will."

"So, you dress up like a cat," I asked, struggling to understand, "because you like them?"

Selina laughed musically before returning to kneel in front of me again. "Gotham's a tough town, kitten," she explained; a lesson that I was fast learning the more time that I spent there. "If you're going to survive here, you need a gimmick. Something to help you fit in with the crazies and stand out from the norms."

I resisted the urge to flinch back as she reached up and pulled my hood back over my head, and then pinched the fabric to make little ears appear, similar to hers. In that moment, I very nearly became Catboy, or Stray, or maybe TomCat. Now _that_ would have been a _very_ different story...

"Are you a good guy or a bad guy?" I asked, because back then, the world was still that black and white with no shades of grey in the middle. I wasn't afraid of Selina, her body language clearly said that she had no intention of hurting me, but she was also hard to read, and that made me a little nervous.

Selina grinned. "I'm a thief, kitten, just like you. Are _you_ a bad guy?"

I shook my head. Okay, so maybe some of the stuff that I had done since the Fall was morally ambiguous, (see: blowing up trailers, beating up bullies, vandalising cars, stealing classified case files...) but I had good intentions and... _wait._ "I'm _not_ a thief."

Selina chuckled at my naivete. "What's your name, kitten?" she asked, still playing with my hood as if she wished that she had some pins with her to keep the cat ears in place.

I didn't have a secret identity to protect, so I answered honestly. "Dick."

"Seriously?" Selina snorted, which was the general reaction I got when people learned my name, if they didn't outright laugh, that is. But she quickly sobered at my eye-roll and smiled warmly instead. "Well, Dick, you and I are now officially friends."

"Really?" I asked, sounding a little too hopeful even to my own ears. I liked Selina, she was nice, even though she was a thief. But it wasn't like I really had a lot of friends left anymore.

"Absolutely, kitten!" Selina replied brightly before standing and taking my hand. "This is the start of a beautiful friendship. Now, how would you like a ride home?"

 _Purr_ fect.


	9. Chapter Nine

The day following my 'heist' of the GCPD was spent looking for an office space amongst the rabbit warren of Bristol Boys Home. I needed somewhere that would never be accidentally stumbled upon, quiet, and above all, out of sight. The incriminating evidence of my theft could never be found because otherwise my vendetta would be stopped before it had even started. And I couldn't allow that to happen.

I had scouted out a few potential spots (under the stairs, the barely frequented 'library') before settling upon the attic. Well, 'attic' might be being a little too kind to what was essentially a crawlspace created by the eaves of the roof, but whatever. It was only accessible through a hatch in the ceiling, the ladder for which had long since vanished (which would be a problem for anyone else, but barely a challenge for me). It was dusty, full of cobwebs and quite possibly infested with furry occupants, but I considered it perfect for what I needed.

Before long I had a newly liberated map of Gotham City tacked up on the sloped wall, the beginnings of my findings stuck all over it. Well, what I could understand of my findings, anyway.

The coveted file on the Zucco investigation was finally in my hands; full of all sorts of information that in a perfect world would lead me right to the mob boss's front door. The trouble was, this wasn't a perfect world, and my golden ticket to revenge turned out to be just another road bump to slow me down. The file was written in what I would later come to call 'cop speak' – all short hand and legal terms. My basic grasp of the English language, just couldn't cut it.

So my map (a.k.a. My Epic Master Plan) was looking a little bare. Three days of glaring at the reams and reams of case notes had resulted in a smattering of surveillance photos tacked near their corresponding locations and not much else.

But I probably could have worked with that – a few places to start, maybe a stake out or two like in the movies. What I really didn't understand was how the Zucco file could be so damn thick, and yet the rather obvious Bad Guy was still walking around free.

Free to kill my family.

From what I could understand of the case notes, Zucco should have been arrested years ago. He should have been locked behind bars and nowhere near Haly's Circus that day. I should have watched another great show and not... not five bodies hitting the unforgiving ground. So _why?_ Why was I a fricking orphan when everything that I was reading said that it shouldn't have happened in the first place?

Why had the cops let Zucco skate by – were they really that incompetent? They were supposed to be the Good Guys!

As I kept reading through the stupid file over and over again, the evidence not changing no matter how many times I tried to tell myself that it wasn't true, I couldn't help but feel betrayed. My temper, that I really only ever had a thin veil of control over anyway, burned anew. All my previous attempts to pacify the anger with distractions and promises that the man responsible would pay, shattered like the fragile words that they really were. There wasn't just _one_ person to blame; not just one _villain,_ but the supposed heroes as well, and that realisation made me question all that I knew about right and wrong.

And then I realised something far worse than any of that. Cops have a chain of command – they answer to someone; the people in charge tell them what to do. Such as Gordon. Gordon was a police Captain; he was the boss, making the decisions. Was he the one that had told the cops not to arrest Zucco? Was this whole thing _his_ fault? Was that why he had been so nice to me?

A guilty conscience?

* * *

By the time that Gordon came to visit me, two days before my Uncle's life would be ended, my anger had festered into dark bitterness. I had practically memorised that damn case file; every word a reminder that things could have been so different. If it wasn't for the mistakes of the GCPD. If it wasn't for Jim Gordon.

I wanted to outright accuse him of killing my family; to yell and scream out all of the frustration that was getting painful to hold back, but I still had some sense left. By revealing what I knew, I would be incriminating myself – how else would I know about the Zucco investigation if I hadn't have somehow gotten my hands on it? No, that was a story I would rather avoid telling. And even if I were to get the satisfaction of seeing Gordon admit to his mistake, that wouldn't get me any closer to Zucco.

And despite my recent discoveries; Zucco still needed to pay.

The Warden had offered us his office to talk in, but Gordon had declined and we ended up in my dormitory instead; a less formal setting. I sat cross-legged on my bed against the backdrop of the barred window; Gordon sitting opposite me and looking as if he were tired enough to just lie down and take a nap.

"I'm sorry that we haven't had the chance to talk before now, Richard," he apologised. I chose not to tell him my preferred name, we were in no way friends. "But things have been a little busy recently."

Gordon, admittedly, did look exhausted. His posture was slightly hunched, like he was trying to remind himself to sit up straight but failing anyway, and his suit was rumpled as if he had slept in it. Stubble lined his jaw, making the ginger caterpillar less prominent, and his eyes were bloodshot behind his glasses; but I refused to be sympathetic. The anger still burned in spite of his vulnerable state, and I wasn't going to let myself be distracted from it.

But I was still curious. "What happened?"

Gordon's lip twitched into the beginnings of a smile at my voice, as if he were proud of me for speaking. He hesitated slightly before answering. "A couple of bad guys have been fighting over the same bit of real estate, and we've been trying to shut them down," he explained vaguely. I figured that he was talking about Penguin and the guy in the Black Mask like I had overheard that night on the roof, and wondered briefly if my 'parent' had managed to post bail for her husband yet.

"Did it work?" I asked.

Gordon sighed. "It's a work in progress."

Anger flared briefly at the apparent admittance of the incompetence of the GCPD – could these people not do _anything_? It had been three days and they still couldn't corral a few bad guys? What did cops do all day?(It would be a while before I learned the mechanics and restrictions of the judicial system. Even longer before I learned that although three days is practically an eternity to a nine-year-old, its nothing in the grand scheme of things.)

Silence settled as I quietly fumed and Gordon tried to figure out how to tactfully begin the conversation that he had actually come to Bristol to have. And then he took his notebook from his pocket and flipped it open, and I knew exactly what was coming.

Gordon now knew that I could talk and, more specifically, could speak English. It was time for the questions that I had thus far avoided. It was time to talk about that night. It was time to think about the Fall.

Panic momentarily out-shined anger.

"I know that this hard, and I really wish that I didn't have to do it," Gordon began, apparently reading my expression and deciding to be gentle with me. "But I do need to ask you a few questions."

I nodded mutely, realising that I only had a few moments to figure out what I was going to say. Tell the truth, and hope that _murder_ was enough to get the GCPD to finally arrest Zucco. Or lie, and get the revenge that I so desperately craved by my own hands.

"I won't make you talk about the accident if you don't want to," Gordon said, and I almost scoffed at the word _'accident'._ "But I need to know a few things. Did you notice anything odd that day? Was anyone acting differently? Scared, or nervous?"

I chewed my lip for a moment, trying to buy time without looking guilty. Gordon watched me, trying to read me the same way that I do other people, and I wondered if he could tell what I was thinking. Part of me really did want to tell him the whole truth right then and there; my Mom had always taught me that it was wrong to lie and I never wanted to disappoint her like I had that day when I had been escorted home by the cops. But I also knew that the anger that I battled with would only get worse if I told the truth and Zucco still walked free.

So I shook my head.

Gordon waited a moment to see if I would elaborate, before continuing. "What about Mr Haly? Was he acting strangely?"

I couldn't stop myself from glaring at the police captain for daring to accuse my surrogate-grandpa. It cut just a little too close to what I was hiding, and I prayed that Gordon couldn't read me as well as I feared. "Pop Haly didn't do anything!" I denied hotly, my accent slipping and making the words nearly indecipherable as my temper spiked.

"I'm not saying that," Gordon soothed. "Did you maybe see him talking to anyone, possibly arguing about something?"

My eyes widened without my consent before I purposely looked down and tried to hide my reaction. Did Gordon already know about the conversation between Pop Haly and Zucco, about the threats? Had Haly talked to the cops and told them? No, no, Pop Haly wouldn't risk the possibility of retribution against the other acts, not after having just lost the Flying Graysons. He didn't trust outsiders, especially cops. He would look after and protect his own. Gordon couldn't know.

"Have you ever heard the name Tony Zucco?"

Unless he did.

It took every ounce of acting skill that I possessed not to react in any way to that name. Just hearing someone say it out loud made my blood pump loudly in my ears; and my hands instinctively clenched the bedsheets to try and restrain my automatic reaction. I shook my head again, keeping my eyes on the carpet in the hopes that my expression wouldn't give me away.

Gordon sighed, and I knew that he had seen right through my lie. He was frustrated by my lack of co-operation and a small, slightly sadistic part of me was glad to have made him feel that way. The rest of me was petrified. What if he kept pushing the questions until I couldn't control my reactions anymore, and I ended up talking? But thankfully the police captain stopped before I could find out and we fell back into silence.

But I couldn't completely let it go. I had to know. "Who is Tony Zucco?"

Gordon studied me for a moment, analysing my body language and tone as I would, trying to read between the lines of the question. "He's a criminal."

"What did he do?" I asked carefully, wary of the fact that Gordon was hearing far more than I was saying out loud. I forced a lid on my temper so that I could focus on the conversation, seeing it as the opportunity that it was to learn. I was still mad at Gordon, and the GCPD, but I was way more angry at Zucco. But the only way to get past the setbacks preventing me from getting to the mob boss was to understand everything that there was to know.

"Extortion, fraud, racketeering," the police captain answered, and I got the distinct impression that he was testing me – trying to figure out what I knew without outright asking me as he knew that I would never answer.

I recognised the words from the file, but I didn't understand what they meant. In my years of learning English through eavesdropping on circus folk and watching cartoons, I had never heard the word 'racketeering' used in a sentence. "What does that mean?" I asked, hoping Gordon saw it as youthful curiosity and not as the information fishing that it really was.

"Racketeering?" Gordon confirmed, picking that crime on purpose, though I didn't yet know why. "Well, it's when someone approaches a business and offers them protection from other people in exchange for money, kinda like an insurance policy. But these people, they use violence to protect the business, and sometimes even threaten or attack the business themselves if they refuse to pay."

_Kinda like what Zucco did to Mr Haly, don't you think?_

I knew exactly what it was that Gordon was doing, I could practically hear the implication as if he had said it out loud, but I didn't fall for it. I stalled him with one simple, innocent question.

"Then why isn't Zucco in jail?"

Gordon froze, and actually had to look away from me for a moment, and I knew that I had struck a nerve. That little sadistic part of me was grinning at the minor victory. Now I would find out the truth, and that sense of betrayal and anger that I had been carrying for days would get some answers.

"Zucco is a little fish," Gordon eventually explained, and I was a little stunned by the honesty – all attempts to get answers from me forgotten, and I realised that this was something that he _wanted_ to tell me. "But the DA, the Mayor and the Commissioner, they want the Big Fish. They want Zucco's boss, Carmine Falcone. The thing is, Falcone is protected – we know that he's a bad guy, but we can't directly tie him to any crime. So in order to reel in the Big Fish, we use the little fish as bait. Do you understand?"

"Umm...not really," I shrugged. I didn't really get what this Falcone guy had to do with anything.

"Okay," Gordon muttered, taking a moment to think of how to word things. "In order to take down Falcone, the DA – that's the District Attorney, basically the head lawyer – needs an airtight case. He needs evidence that Falcone is guilty of everything that we know that he's done, and he needs a witness to corroborate it. Zucco is the witness that the DA wants as he has worked for Falcone for years and actually runs part of the business. But the thing is, even if we arrested Zucco, he won't talk, because bad guys like this operate under _Omertà_."

I furrowed my brow, vaguely recognising the word. "'Silence'?"

Gordon nodded. "More specifically, a code of silence. These guys won't rat on each other, no matter what. We've got Zucco on several counts of fraud, racketeering, loan-sharking, extortion, threats... He should have been off the streets years ago. But the DA wants to flip him on Falcone, and the only way to do that is to catch him in a crime for which the consequences are worse than breaking the code."

And then I got it. Zucco was free because the cops, the _'good_ _guys_ ', were waiting for him to commit a crime so bad that he would have no choice but to talk. Say for instance, _murder._ The threat of several consecutive life sentences for manslaughter outweighed the consequences of breaking the code.

The deaths of the Flying Graysons were terribly convenient. If they could connect Zucco to them.

"So, if Zucco killed my family," I asked, my voice quiet and hitching ever-so-slightly on the word 'if'. "And he was caught. What would happen?"

Gordon looked down for a moment. "The DA would make a deal with him. Information and agreement to testify against Falcone in exchange for a lighter sentence."

So basically, if I admitted to Gordon that I had seen Zucco that day, and witnessed him threatening Pop Haly, then Zucco would never truly pay for his crimes. The Graysons would never see justice done for having their lives cut so tragically short.

I realised then that I had been right. It _was_ a guilty conscience that had led Gordon to become so involved with helping me. He _knew_ that this is what the biggest loss of my life boiled down to.

A means to an end.

“It's politics,” Gordon said quietly, more to himself than to me, with more than a hint of disgust in his tone. He still wasn't meeting my eyes, as if he blamed himself for the decisions of his superiors just as much as I did. But I was beginning to understand the truth – that I was blaming Gordon purely because he was the only cop that I really knew and I had needed someone to direct my rage towards. Someone that I could confront and get answers from.

And ultimately, Gordon _had_ told me the truth. It was that honesty that finally diffused some of the anger that burned like fire in my chest. Was it fair to blame him when it wasn't really his fault?

We went back to the silence following the confessional nature of the conversation; with Gordon choosing not to question me further despite the fact that I knew that he had deduced that I was a witness, and me mulling over all that I had learned. It was a lot to swallow, that my family had become unwitting pawns in the GCPD's fight against organised crime, but I was gradually coming to terms with it.

If there wasn't bad guys in the first place, the good guys wouldn't need to do the things that they had done in order to catch them. By that logic, Zucco was still the target of my rage, and Gordon? He had been used just as I had.

"Will you still be taking me to see Uncle Rick?" I asked uncertainly, not knowing if our status quo had been changed in the wake of all the revelations.

Gordon met my eyes, silently asking the same question, before his lips quirked in a sad smile. "Of course. I'll pick you up in the morning so that you'll have a chance to... say goodbye."

"Thanks," I muttered.

Gordon reached across the gap between the two beds and squeezed my shoulder, communicating so much with that one gesture that he didn't really need to apologise. I had already forgiven him. "I am so sorry that this happened to you, Richard."

"Dick," I corrected with a self conscious smile. Gordon nodded and held out a hand which I shook.

"Jim."

* * *

The last night of Uncle Rick's life passed quietly; sometimes so slow that it felt as if time was purposely mocking me, sometimes so fast that I wished for the seconds back. I snuck out of the dorm about an hour after lights out and made my way up to my office in the eaves, taking solace in the company of the dust and the cobwebs.

Laying on my back and staring up at the map, I tried to distract myself from the worries and doubts and fears that kept me awake, but I could still think of nothing but Uncle Rick. I wondered if he knew what was going to happen, if maybe he was hammering on the walls of his prison begging for me not to turn the damn machines off. Or maybe he was just getting impatient, wanting to go and see Aunt Karla and John already.

Or more likely, he wasn't thinking at all. He was just empty. And that... that scared me the most.

That I was already alone.


	10. Chapter Ten

The next morning I sat on Bristol's front steps and waited for Jim to come and pick me up.

I had snuck down from my office an hour before dawn and lay on my bed staring up at the dorm's ceiling; my thoughts finally falling silent as I grew more and more numb the closer to morning that it got. Mechanically I went through the motions of getting dressed and eating breakfast, unintentionally ignoring anyone who attempted to speak to me. The minutes dragged by slowly until I eventually ran out of things to do, leading me to my perch on the cold concrete steps.

Absently, I played with the zipper on my hoodie as I waited; a nervous tic as the rest of me remained stony. All I could feel was the weight of the photo frame in my backpack that seemed leaden on my shoulders.

At exactly eleven o'clock, Gordon's familiar town car rolled up next to the sidewalk. I stood and walked straight to the passenger side door before Jim had even had a chance to put the car in park. He watched me sadly as I climbed in silently beside him and clutched my backpack on my lap as if it were a precious commodity. And then we drove to Gotham Memorial without a word passing between us.

The doctor was waiting as we approached the ward. The machines weren't scheduled to be switched off until midday, but Jim had told them that we were coming slightly earlier. The doctor offered me a sympathetic half-smile and Jim squeezed my shoulder, and then I was left to see my Uncle on my own.

Walking into that room was one of the hardest things that I have ever done. I hesitated at the threshold; my feet feeling impossibly heavy and the straps of my backpack cutting into my shoulders, as if something was trying to hold me back. Taking that first step into the room – it just felt so final. The weight of the decision that I had made hitting me in that moment like I had never allowed it to before.

Uncle Rick lay exactly as I had left him the week before, as if his deterioration had frozen the moment that those words had left my lips. As if he had held his breath in expectation for this day.

Crossing the room slowly, I took my seat beside his bed, and then reached up and took his hand. It felt so cold to the touch, every bone prominent under thin skin – nothing like the warm grip that would catch me every time that the Flying Graysons flew. I wrapped my other hand around his frail wrist, the gentle thrum of his pulse against my fingertips, reassuring me in a way that the heart monitor could not.

"[Hi Uncle Rick]," I whispered quietly in my family's language; the words feeling both odd after so long of not being used, and comfortingly familiar. "[It's... it's nearly time... and I...]" My voice cracked a little, the guilt of admitting out loud what was about to happen making a sob catch in my throat. "[I'm so sorry.]"

And with that the floodgates opened; tears that I had been keeping at bay for so long leaking down my cheeks and left to drip from my chin.

"[Please forgive me,]" I remember asking, hoping that my Uncle would hear me even though I didn't necessarily believe that he could. I stared at his gaunt face and sunken features, unable to drag my eyes away, as the words fell as unbidden as my tears. "[I... I don't want you to go... Please understand...]"

I was falling apart, moments away from breaking down right there, but that wasn't what I wanted. This was the last conversation that I would ever have with my uncle and I didn't want the final words spoken to be nonsensical babble. So I forced myself to take a deep breath; biting my lip to stop it from trembling and looking up to stem the tears, trying to bring back some semblance of control.

"[I'm sorry,]" I muttered again as I scrubbed at the salty tracks drying on my cheeks. "[I wanted to be strong, like you, but it's _so_ hard. I'm trying... I'm trying to do what's best, for both of us, but I just don't know what _you'd_ want me to do. I don't even know if you're still here, but I want to believe that you can hear me, so... so that I can tell you... So that we can say goodbye.]"

The tenuous grip that I had on my grief was slipping with every word and I rubbed at my eyes in frustration. "[Dammit,]" I swore under my breath, before laughing bitterly. "[I'm a Flying Grayson. I'm supposed to be tougher than this, right? Fearless? Brave? And yet all I feel is pain and sadness and anger and _so much fear._ I'm scared, I'm _so_ scared of being alone. I'm afraid that I'm going to fall, and no one's going to be there to catch me, and I just wish...]"

My voice trailed off, becoming so quiet that it couldn't even be classed as a whisper. "[Sometimes... sometimes I wish that the ground had gotten me too,]" I confessed, shame colouring my cheeks the same shade of scarlet as my red-rimmed eyes. "[It just hurts so much, all the time, and no one should have to feel this way.]"

My face was drenched and I was struggling to breathe between sniffles, but my voice gradually became a little stronger. "[I know who did it,]" I told Uncle Rick, and the tears began to slow as my anger took precedence. "[I know who sabotaged the ropes. It wasn't an accident. It was this really bad guy that the cops won't arrest, but it's okay. _I'm_ gonna make him pay. I promise.]"

"['I promise']?" A voice repeated, the accent and pronunciation instantly telling me that the owner wasn't Rom. I looked up to find Bruce Wayne standing in the doorway, watching me with an expression that was deeper than the sympathetic looks that everyone else gave me. "What does that mean?"

I wanted to snap at him that it was none of his damn business; that this was _my_ time to say _goodbye_ and I really didn't want his company. But then he came over and wordlessly handed me a handkerchief before taking the seat beside me, and I found myself answering. "It means 'I promise'."

"What did you promise him?" Bruce asked.

"That I would make him proud," I half-lied.

He seemed to consider this for a moment, and for a brief second I thought that he had seen straight through my half-truth. Bruce has always had that aura about him, like he always knows way more than you think and all of your secrets are an open book before him (I never have been able to figure out when he actually knows something and when it's just Bruce being Bruce.) But the billionaire simply repeated the Romani phrase to himself, as if he were memorising it for later, and the conversation ended.

And then the doctor and Jim appeared at the doorway, and I knew that it was time.

As the doctor approached the bed I had the irrational urge to jump up and protect my uncle, but a hand on my arm kept me in my chair. I glanced sideways to see Bruce watching the doctor begin the process of turning off the machines, the billionaire seemingly unaware of his action to restrain me.

I sat frozen as the doctor removed the breathing tube; part of me praying that Uncle Rick would start breathing on his own, the rest of me dreading the exact same thing. But as I stared numbly for what could have been hours, though was more likely only minutes, his respiration slowed to nothing. After the constant noise of the ventilator and the heart monitor, the stillness was jarring, but peaceful.

I knew the exact moment that Uncle Rick passed; the last trace of life leaving him. I didn't need to hear the doctor call the time of death.

All feigned strength and restraint left me in that moment too; all the sorrow and pain and grief pouring out in tears and uncontrollable sobs. Almost instinctively, I turned to the nearest source of comfort, an unsuspecting Bruce Wayne finding me latching onto his sleeve like it was my one lifeline. I distantly felt him awkwardly patting my shoulder as I ruined his expensive suit, but I can't say that I had the sense of mind to care.

Eventually, when it became clear that I wouldn't be letting go anytime soon, Bruce lifted me onto his lap and cradled me against his shoulder. His body was still tense and he had no idea whether to continuing patting me or rub soothing circles on my back, but I can honestly say that that was one of the first times that I had felt safe since the Fall.

I ended up crying until I passed out; and when I woke up Bruce was gone. And then it hit me that this was it.

I was truly alone.

* * *

A few days later, Jim swung by for a visit to tell me that my family's bodies were ready to be released from the morgue. It had taken so long because, well, this was Gotham – the Medical Examiner's office was constantly inundated with the deceased. But now that the autopsies had been completed and all possible evidence gleaned (what was there to find? I couldn't help but wonder, despite telling my thoughts not to go there) it was time to make one more huge decision.

The funeral arrangements.

Jim assured me that Mr Wayne had once again offered to pick up the tab (and why was this stranger getting so involved?) so I wouldn't be restricted to a State funeral. But once again, Mr Wayne wanted it to be my choice. Burial or cremation.

This decision was far easier than the one that I was still struggling to live with though. The Flying Graysons didn't belong in the ground – it was the damn ground that had killed them. I couldn't stand there and watch as they were trapped and still beneath six feet of dirt. No, they needed freedom and the chance to fly again.

I told Jim my decision. He said he would pass it on to Bruce and that everything would be taken care of.

* * *

The memorial service was held on the 1st of May, exactly one month after the Fall. The weather was bright and warm, beautifully seasonal for Spring – my Mom's favourite time of the year. A gentle breeze rustled the freshly green trees, sending blossoms scattering across new grass; the whole thing perfectly picturesque.

I hated it.

It was just so different from the way that I felt inside, so unlike the dark grief and anger that swirled in my gut, that the whole thing felt like a cosmic joke. I wanted rain and thunderstorms and a wind so sharp that it cut the skin. I wanted the world to feel just as broken and torn up as I did. And maybe then I wouldn't feel so alone. Even the fricking weather was conspiring against me.

I glared up at the smug sun as I waited with Jim beside his car, purposely ignoring the trail of other mourners that were filing into the funeral home. I knew that Pop Haly would be there with some of the folks from the circus, and Nurse Dumas had said that she would come. I had already spotted Mr Wayne climbing out of a sleek limo, the door held open by his butler. But there was also a load of people that I didn't recognise. I guessed that they had been in the audience that night, there to pay their respects.

The sun was finally taking cover behind a wisp of cloud when Jim placed his hand on my shoulder and nodded towards the door. "It's time," he said quietly.

The service was held in a small hall, several rows of chairs divided by an aisle down the middle, with a variety of flowers marking every other row. At the front, next to where the priest was standing behind the pulpit, was five caskets.

Mom. Dad. Uncle Rick. Aunt Karla. John.

Jim held my hand as we walked down the aisle, all eyes turning to watch me with sympathy. The closer that we got to the five white caskets, the harder it was to simply put one foot in front of the other. If it weren't for Jim gently tugging me along, I would have turned and ran from that hall. I didn't want to see this. I didn't want to see _them_ like this.

By the time that we reached our seats I was barely able to move under my own power. I sank onto the chair and froze up, the tears already falling quietly as I stared at the carpet, unable to bring myself to look anywhere else.

Throughout the service, several people stood and spoke kind words about my family, but I couldn't tell you what they said. I wasn't really there. I was miles away, walking through memories that hurt just as much as they made me want to smile. I remembered my first day on the ropes – John winding me up and Uncle Rick joining in; Aunt Karla scolding the pair of them but laughing at the same time. I remember being terrified when I looked down from the platform at the merciless ground seemingly miles below.

 _Don't be scared,_ I remember my mother saying. _If you're afraid of falling, you'll never know if you can fly._

I had jumped, the initial terror morphing into awe as I defied gravity for the first time. And then Dad was there, catching me like it was nothing. There wasn't anything to be afraid of. Not as long as my family was there.

And now they weren't.

Once the service ended Jim led me back outside into the mocking sunlight, where we stood beside the door as the rest of the congregation filed out. Words of condolences and whispered apologies for my loss fell emptily from their lips and I nodded my thanks even as I barely heard them.

Nurse Dumas came out about halfway through the queue and knelt before me. She was crying more than I was, her eyes red and puffy and a tissue clenched tightly in her hand. She pulled me into a tight hug and stroked my hair, and I found myself hugging her back, a small sob escaping me too. "I'm so sorry," she murmured as she held me. "I'm so sorry that this happened to someone as special as you."

Jim was a constant presence beside me as more mourners passed, the hand on my shoulder the only thing keeping me steady.

The last person to leave the hall was Bruce. He was as put together as ever in an expensive suit and slicked back hair, but there was the beginnings of a crack in the emotionless mask that he wore. I wondered if the service had reminded him of the day that he had had to say goodbye to his own parents. He didn't say a word, knowing that there wasn't really anything that could be said to alleviate the grief that I was feeling. He offered his hand to shake, which I took. I thanked him for everything that he had done for me and my family, and then he left with his butler.

It was near noon by the time that Jim led me into the funeral home's office, most of the crowd that had gathered for the service having left. Inside, the funeral director waited with Pop Haly, the pair of them discussing something quietly. They stopped and turned to face me as we entered, their expressions sombre and sympathetic.

"[Hi, Dick,]" Pop Haly greeted in Romani, even though it was never his strongest language. I hadn't seen him since that night, and the past month hadn't been kind to him. He looked exhausted and stressed, and I knew that some of that was due to the guilt that he felt for turning down Zucco's offer. I didn't blame him in the slightest. "[How holding you up?]"

I almost smiled at his poor grammar. "I'm okay."

Pop Haly's eyes widened slightly at my use of English, but then softened proudly. "It's good to see you, kid."

I was invited to sit before the funeral director's desk, Pop Haly taking the other chair and Jim coming to stand behind me as the next step was outlined. They explained to me that it was time to choose what to do with the ashes, and I have to say, there was a scary number of options. But Pop Haly was there because he had volunteered to scatter them along the circus' tour, giving them the freedom that I wanted them to have. They would hate to be trapped in a tiny urn, and Mom would despise the thought of being scattered in a city, which was pretty much all that I could do on my own.

With the agreement made, Pop Haly picked me up and hugged me close, like he had that night – as if he were afraid to let go. I clung to my surrogate-grandpa with the same strength. "It's not your fault, Pop."

Haly sobbed, the sound an odd mix of relief and grief. "They never wanted to leave you, Dick," he replied quietly. "And they never will. They're so proud of you, I know it."

I nodded against his shoulder and then he reluctantly let me go. I waved at him as Jim led me back outside and over to his car, the goodbye just as hard as it had been that night.

"I've got something for you," Jim said as he opened the passenger side door. He waited until I climbed into the car and then crouched down beside me. He pulled a small drawstring bag out of his pocket. "The investigation is still open, but I managed to get these released from evidence. I know it's not much to remember them by, but I want you to know that your family will _always_ be with you."

Curious, I watched as he opened the bag and pulled out a silver chain. On it was four rings. My Mom and Dad's, and my Aunt and Uncle's, wedding rings. He took my hand and held it out palm up, placing the chain and the precious keepsakes in my grasp.

"Thank you," I whispered. I looked up and met his eyes, trying to convey every ounce of gratitude and respect that I had for the police captain. "Thank you for everything."


	11. Chapter Eleven

Two weeks on from the funeral, and I was fulfilling my promise. Kind of.

The night after the service I had packed up the few items that I owned and snuck out of Bristol, with no intention of ever going back. The first week had been spent learning how to survive on the streets. The second had been spent obsessing over the notes that I had collected on Zucco. My wall of crazy from my office in the eaves had been transferred into the journal that Nurse Dumas had given me, the pages beginning to wear from the amount of times that I had studied it.

Following a lead from my research, I had found a bar that the mob boss frequented in the Eastern Quarter, which I then proceeded to stake out. For several nights. And when I say stake out, I mean 'lurk in the shadows' and hope that Zucco decided to show.

(Beyond that? Well, that's where the plan gets a bit sketchy.)

Being a nine-year-old kid, I couldn't exactly walk into the bar and take a seat in the corner booth. Can you just imagine me ordering a glass of milk and some cookies, surrounded by the scum of the earth getting drunk and playing pool? Yeah, no. Which left me outside, perched behind the neon sign of the building next door, overlooking the parking lot. The ledge was thin and didn't afford much comfort, but I was practically invisible and had a decent view, so I called it perfect.

And it actually paid off.

Three nights spent sitting in the rain, and I was close to giving up hope. That was until I saw a familiar face. Unfortunately, it wasn't Zucco.

"Stoopid barkeep," a voice roughened by years of tobacco abuse grumbled, the owner of it stumbling out of the bar's back door. He was short and slight, with a fedora pulled low and wearing a knock-off Armani suit. His gait was inhibited with a limp thanks to a recent brush with an exploding trailer. Benny, one half of Zucco's hitman duo. The moment that the goon cleared the threshold a fresh cigarette was lit between his lips, a deep drag making the chain-smoker sigh. "Kicking us out just cos I'sa enjoying a ciggy. It ain't illegal!"

A far larger shadow emerged behind the shorter man, which could only his counterpart, Joe. His broader frame was straining for escape from his own suit and a healing burn was visible on his bald head (which I felt mildly guilty for causing.) They stumbled out into the parking lot's low light, Benny still mumbling about the unfairness of it all as Joe just rolled his eyes. Knowing that the pair of them worked for Zucco, I sat up a little straighter and strained to hear every word that they said.

"You knows we shouldn't'a be here anyways," Joe murmured, almost so quietly that I missed it; but thankfully the bigger guy's deep voice carried. "If Falcone knows we on his turf..."

" _Pfft..."_ Benny dismissed. At the mention of Falcone I leaned right forward, peeking out from behind the neon sign and balancing on my haunches. "It's a bar. I'm just enoyin' a drink. What's he gonna do about it?"

Joe raised an eyebrow, but chose not to answer. If anything that I had read about Falcone was true, there were plenty of things that the family head could do to the two goons that were possibly pushing their luck. I leaned even further forward to hear better, anchoring myself with a one-handed grip on the neon sign. "All I knows is we ain't supposed to be here. We ain't welcome no more now that the boss is on the outs."

I furrowed my brow in confusion. Zucco and Falcone were having problems? When did that happen? All the research that I had managed to get on the pair of them said that Zucco was a highly trusted lieutenant, even so far as controlling part of the family business – what could make Falcone change his opinion so drastically? Was the risk of the GCPD getting leverage on Zucco bigger than I had thought...? And did that mean that they had evidence of my family's murder, despite my silence?

Benny gave a short laugh of disbelief, almost choking on his own cigarette smoke. "'On the outs'? Youse got a lot ta learn Joey, my boy. That's just boss-speak for a pissing contest. Falcone's just a testing his loyalty, seeing how far Zucco'll go ta protect the family. He cleans up his own mess like a good crime boss..."

"But he didn't, the kid..." Joe started to point out, until an almost bat-worthy death glare from Benny stopped him cold. I smirked to myself as both men subconsciously rubbed at the injuries sustained from their failed assassination attempt. Apparently, they remembered me.

"It don't matter," Benny hissed. "That crazy brat won't say a word, and even if he does, the case'll get thrown outta court on account of there a bein a lack a evidence. So what if Zucco and the circus man had a loud conversation – that don't prove nuttin. And they ain't never gonna prove how them ropes broke."

I froze, hanging two storeys above street level, as Benny spoke so callously about the deaths of my entire family. Sure, I had known that there would be no justice for them by relying on the 'integrity' of Gotham's courts, but to know that _murder_ could be dismissed so easily on a technicality made my rage flare like flash-paper. And then his last sentence caught up with me. _How them ropes broke._

_Smoke rising from fraying fibres. The acrid smell of burning nylon._

_Thud. Thud, **thud.** Thud. **Thud.**_

"As if Zucco would ever flip." Benny snorted loudly, snapping me out of the flashback. I blinked to find myself staring at the vindictive ground far below. Barely the backs of my heels rested on the ledge and only my white-knuckled grip on the support of the neon sign held me in place. My breathing was too fast, I knew, but I couldn't calm myself down. All I could see was the concrete. All I could hear was the sickening sound of shattering bones.

"Falcone ain't gonna take that chance," Joe replied, but I was barely paying the conversation any heed anymore. Just my small body pulling on the half-rusted sign was enough to begin to ease old screws out of mortar, the slight shift making my whole body go rigid with fear. Down below, the small squeal drew the goons' attention. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Another inch gave, leaving me dangling precariously over the edge. My own weight created the strain on the screws, preventing me from correcting my balance even if I had managed to find to courage to try and move. I couldn't do anything but stare at the alley below, pitiless gravity trying to ground me with the same finality that it had my family.

Joe and Benny looked up at the groan of complaining metal, both of them seeing me with the same look of stunned disbelief. Surprise at my presence kept them immobile, as I lost my battle of wits against the laws of physics.

The old sign came free from the brickwork. Overbalanced, I fell.

Everything slowed right down as I dropped like a stone. My stomach was left behind. The wind howling as it tore at my face. _Is this how they had felt?_ my traitorous thoughts asked before I could silence them. If I had let my fear control me, I would have smacked into the concrete face first. Thankfully, logic and instinct saved me. A small, _small_ voice in my head, (that sounded a lot like Bruce, oddly enough) reminded me that I wasn't that high up. The fall wouldn't kill me

Unless I _let_ it.

At the very last second, I turned the free fall into an awkward tumble, landing heavily on my left foot before rolling out the momentum and coming up in a crouch.

I took a second to simply breathe. And then I remembered that I had company.

"Well, I'll be," Benny muttered. His hand went to his right hip as a grin split his narrow face. "Looks like its our lucky day, Joe."

Joe touched the burn on his bald head, an angry glower darkening his features.

Oh yeah. They _definitely_ remembered me.

I had a split second to consider my options; the fight or flight instinct working overtime to compensate for my wild emotions. Part of me wanted to satisfy the rage that constantly burned, agitated by Benny's cold words - words that really needed beating right out of him so that I wouldn't hear them repeat in my head. Part of me was still flooded with fear, like a frightened animal ready to run at the slightest sound. And then I realised that Benny and Joe were reaching for their _guns._

This wasn't a school yard fight with a couple of bullies. These were _real_ bad guys that despised me, and wanted me dead. I couldn't _win_ a fight.

So I ran.

I spun on my heels and stood, my left ankle twinging with pain that I ignored, and sprinted like my life depended on it. Direction and destination meant nothing to me as my sneakers pounded the pavement – the slap of Italian shoes on asphalt echoing every step in harmony.

_BANG!_

You have no idea how loud a gun is until one goes off right beside your head. My ears were literally ringing as brick dust rained down from a newly drilled hole in the wall beside me, forcing me to swerve left and down a side street. Another shot had me ducking, my arms automatically raising to protect my head even as my brain yelled at me that that wouldn't stop a bullet.

The Eastern Quarter isn't exactly desolate, so as I ran through the streets I did see several people (mostly of the shady variety). None of them reacted to a small kid being run down and shot at by a couple of grown thugs. None of the civilians, safe behind closed doors, reported the gunfire either. This was Gotham, after all. Gunshots were commonplace, especially in this part of town. Calling the cops would just bring attention that people didn't want.

Which left me running for my life.

I zigged and I zagged, down alleys and up side roads, making myself a small, moving target. Thankfully, Benny and Joes' improbable aiming skills left a lot to be desired; the few near-misses hitting nothing but brick and concrete. But I knew that my luck couldn't last for much longer. Being as short as I was, I had to take maybe four strides for every one of theirs; and after three nights folded onto a tiny ledge with no sleep... well, my reserves were running low.

I was going to get slow. And then I was going to get dead.

My vendetta ended my a couple of low level mooks.

Adrenaline can only do so much, and after over two minutes of maintaining a dead run, mine had run out. My chest burned with every pant that was providing nowhere near enough air, my heart thumping so hard that I could hear it pulsing in my ears. My legs were close to turning to jelly beneath me, my twisted ankle making itself known with a stab of pain for every step. I had to find a way to end this, before I ended up collapsed on the ground and begging my pursuers to just put me out of my misery.

Most people would have given up by now, but not Joe and Benny. They continued to chase me, their desire for revenge far outweighing their own exhaustion; even though a glance over my shoulder revealed bright red faces and hands too shaky to aim their weapons properly.

And then I had an incredibly crazy idea. (No. 7 on my Top 10 Crazy Plan list).

My knowledge of Gotham's geography had greatly improved in my few weeks on the streets, so I had a vague idea of where I was – and what was close by. Such as the train tracks.

The city was never quiet, but I strained to listen over the urban soundtrack anyway and was rewarded with the rhythmic chugging of an approaching train. Gaining a second wind, I put on a burst of speed and adjusted my route. Skidding out of the alley and onto a main street, I was all too aware that I was an easy target out in the open like this. But I just had to hope that the goons really were too tired to shoot straight, or this would end _very_ badly.

Up ahead, the street bisected the railway line that ran in a valley underneath the road bridge. Street lamps lit the narrow structure, but the twenty-odd metre drop over the edge looked like a dark abyss. The shrill whistle of the train that I had heard drew my eye, the coveted locomotive trundling towards the bridge. The timing would have to be perfect.

You see, the trick to escaping a foot chase is to be willing to do what your pursuer won't. Like say, for instance, jumping off a bridge onto a moving train.

As I ran full pelt down the middle of the deserted road, an old fragment of buried memory resurfaced. I vaguely recalled my family teaching me how to fall, the scene playing out like an old movie in my mind's eye. We had climbed up to the highest point of the equipment, near the very top of the Big Top, and then I had been told to look down. Understandably, I had frozen up, staring at the ground seemingly hundred of miles below, terrified of what would happen if I fell. And then my father had pushed me.

I screamed all the way down to the net.

It seems cruel, but think of this way. You know when a novice goes ice skating for the first time; how they spend the first hour clinging to the side and pigeon-toeing like a newborn faun around the rink, absolutely terrified of the perceived pain of hitting the ice? And then they trip, land on their butt... and laugh it off. Now that they know that it isn't as bad as they fear, they try again, more confident than before.

It was the same for me. I learned not to be afraid of falling – that fearlessness allowing me to fly.

The train was just beginning to thunder under the bridge, my window of opportunity closing with every car that passed. Joe and Benny were right on my tail, the latter staggering to a stop to better raise and aim his gun now that I had nowhere to hide.

I couldn't afford to freeze up. I couldn't be afraid of falling.

I ran straight up to the railing. And vaulted over the side.


	12. Chapter Twelve

The ground rushed up to meet me like an old friend barrelling towards me for a hug.

In that moment, I'm not sure whether I was more scared out of my mind for facing my fear, or exhilarated by the thrill. It was like that day in the train yard (seemingly aeons ago) hyper aware of every little detail around me. Below, three cars were all that was left of the train to pass under the bridge – the small chance of my crazy plan actually succeeding shrinking with every micro second. Above, a loud _PLING_ ran out as Benny's shot hit the railing, missing me completely.

I drunk in the adrenaline like a junkie, flying through the air like I was always meant to. If it weren't for the whole 'running for my life' aspect of the exercise, I would have said that it was fun.

The flying part that is. The _landing_ was decidedly _not_ fun.

My feet hit the roof of the second to last car, my legs registering the jarring impact right before they were ripped out from under me. Having never actually jumped onto a _moving_ train before, I hadn't accounted for the locomotive's momentum; the sudden twist of my body going one way and my feet going the other throwing me of balance before I had even managed to catch it in the first place.

My left ankle screamed at the mistreatment as I was flung onto my shoulder; but my cry of pain was cut-off before I had even made it. I slid across the rain-slicked roof, fingers scrabbling for purchase and finding none.

And then I was in the air again.

The train had hit a bump in the tracks, lifting me up and tossing me sideways, the roof vanishing from beneath me. It was only a stroke of pure luck that a flailing hand managed to catch a hold of the rail on the edge of the roof, as I headed for the grass verge. My shoulder very nearly came clear out of its socket as I dropped, stopped, and ended up dangling one-handed over the side of the train.

Thankfully, this was a goods train doing the pre-dawn run, the wide door open and inviting me inside. I swung like a monkey and landed in a crouch on the floor, my heart pounding like a bass drum in my ears following my (series of) near-death experiences. The relief at my survival left me ever-so-slightly hysterical, as all of my energy left me in one fell swoop.

A slightly crazed giggle _may_ have escaped me as I sagged like a deflated balloon.

Once the chuckles had subsided, I took a moment to take in my surroundings. The car that I had landed on was mostly empty, with only a couple of boxes stacked in one corner and a few sacks of grain or something secured with netting on the other side. Tired and aching, I took a seat beside the open door, watching the cityscape of Gotham change as we trundled along the tracks.

In my time at Bristol I had started memorising train schedules when I hit a brick wall with my Zucco research, knowing that the trains would be a good way to travel (and you thought that I did no planning... failed stakeouts and improvised police station heists notwithstanding...). Judging by the lack of cargo, the direction, and the time, I figured that I had landed on the 2:10 goods train out of Bludhaven, which meant that I was headed towards the main yard; a five minute walk from Gotham Central Station.

Right where I needed to go.

My ankle was killing me; most likely just a bad sprain, though I refused to check on it until I had the supplies to deal with it. I needed a place to lay low for a few days and get the swelling down, and Gotham Central was perfect.

Contrary to what you may have witnessed thus far, I did actually think ahead sometimes. Having spent my first night on the streets sleeping in a doorway, I had dedicated the rest of the week to scoping out a few places to keep things safe, one of which was at Gotham Central. You learned quick, or you didn't learn at all, after all.

As the train slowed right down on its approach to the yard, I peeked out of the side door and hopped out before the night watchman performed his checks. The muscles in my legs had seized from sitting still straight after maintaining a dead run. I was barely functioning on the fumes that I had left, my eyes dropping from exhaustion. The gravel rolled beneath my feet, twisting my damn ankle even further, but I bit down a hiss of pain and kept moving.

The five minute walk may as well have been a hundred miles for how bad I felt, but I kept trudging along while trying to avoid other people. It was barely four in the morning, so there weren't that many pedestrians about, but it was still better to not be noticed. No one bats an eyelid when a kid is being chased by gun-toting bad guys – but an unaccompanied minor wandering the streets alone? Surely he needs help!

(The priorities people have...)

I happened to know that the station master took a coffee break around that time, meaning that there was no one to stop me and ask questions as I squeezed through the mostly-shut front gates.

The large station is one of the oldest buildings in Gotham (fun fact), all grand Victorian architecture with stone floors and high ceilings; making it nigh on impossible to be stealthy. My sneakers squeaked with every step, my one-sided gait echoing like drumbeats throughout the cavernous space.

Near the centre of the main atrium was a block of lockers, one of which I had stolen a dollar for and claimed as my own. It was just one of several dropboxes that I had set up around the Eastern Quarter, each one full of various supplies that I had accumulated somewhat illegally. I kept the key in my sock, just in case I lost my bag or my pockets proved unreliable (see, forethought!) which I fished out and rammed into the corresponding locker, 331. Opening my backpack, I switched out my stakeout supplies for a first aid kit and some protein bars, before the closing the locker and preparing to limp off again.

Now all I needed was a safe place to hang for a few days while my ankle healed, which again, the station provided.

Heading out of a side door, I stepped back out into the constant drizzle that instantly made me cold and wet on top of aching and tired, and followed the signs to the long stay parking lot.

The privately owned lot boasted a highly secure place to keep one's car for a while, but really it was anything but. At any given time a single guard manned the booth and controlled the front gate, and that was about it. There were signs warning trespassers to 'beware of the dogs' but no evidence of said canines was to be found. The few surveillance cameras mounted on the lampposts were all decoys. All in all, not the safest place to park your car, but the perfect place to find somewhere warm and dry to sleep.

Scaling the fence was a bit of an issue with essentially one leg, but I just about managed it and landed soundlessly on the other side. And then it was just a case of finding a car whose owner wouldn't be back for a while; the helpfully displayed tickets on every windscreen making the task child's play.

I wandered down the rows until I found an old sedan that was a good distance from the guard and still had nearly a week left on the ticket. From my bag I took out my improvised slim-jim (essentially a coat hanger that I had twisted into submission) and then I slotted it beneath the rubber seal at the base of the driver's side window.

As proven, I am relatively adept at breaking into cars, with a variety of household objects. In my defence, I only ever used this skill when I was desperate, so yeah, it's a crime, but I think that I can be forgiven, right?

With a twist and a click the lock popped open, allowing me to reach in and unlock the back door. I clambered into the back seat, careful not to get my mud-caked shoes on the upholstery (at least I was a considerate criminal) and shut the door behind me.

Rain continued to hammer on the roof of the sedan, the early morning sun barely making a dent in the thick cloud cover. I was shivering in my soaked-through hoodie and jeans, but I ignored that as I carefully extracted my injured foot from my left shoe. My ankle was at least twice the size that it was supposed to be and turning a deep shade of purple, but a quick examination concluded that it was just a bad sprain as I had suspected and nothing more serious.

I was used to looking after my own injuries – even the Flying Graysons pulled muscles and sprained limbs sometimes – so I had a pretty good idea of what I needed to do. Taking the first aid kit from my backpack I picked out a bandage and an instant-activated cold pack, and set to wrapping up my ankle. I popped a few ibuprofen to help bring down the swelling, and then propped my foot up and sprawled across the back seat.

Lying there, staring up at the ceiling, I realised just how epically I had failed.

Not the whole jumping off a bridge onto a moving train thing – _that_ had gone surprisingly well, considering. But my attempt at intelligence gathering? _That_ had gone to hell. And it was entirely my fault.

Three nights of watching that damned bar and finally, _finally_ someone associated to Zucco had come out, _talking_ no less, and I had barely learned anything. One mention of my family, one reminder of how they had died, and it was like I was back there again. Frozen, unable to breath. Terrified.

Now, looking back, I get it. I had just lost _everything;_ my parents, my way of life, my home, my childhood... I was lucky to have been functioning at all. But in that moment, faced with my inability to control my own emotional state, I just couldn't forgive myself. I knew that I had some slight anger management problems, I was working on that; but I hadn't been expecting myself to be paralysed with fear. I had wanted to beat the living crap out of Benny, even as I had been desperate to flee; my hesitation in that moment almost costing me my life before I had had a chance to act on either impulse.

If this was how I reacted to a couple of goons, how would I cope with facing Zucco when I found him?

What would I _do?_ What did I _want_ to do?

Revenge is such a vague concept. It encompasses everything from petty retribution to a rage-fuelled killing spree; and I wasn't entirely sure of where it was on that scale that I fell. What would I be _willing_ to do? Would I carve a path of red just to see justice done? Was I even _capable_ of that?

The effervescent fury shouted _YES._ A far quieter voice of wisdom whispered _no._

With these thoughts warring in my head, my body finally gave into the exhaustion as I drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 

The next two days were pretty uneventful. I spent them hanging out in the back of the sedan, my foot elevated and slowly returning to its correct size, as I whiled away the hours plotting my (still ultimately aimless) vendetta.

I couldn't answer my own questions, which left me with little choice but to plunge down that rabbit hole and see which way my path led. I would find Zucco, and then... and then figure something out. A stern talking to? Simply asking _why?_ A right hook? Murder?

(I'm vaguely wondering if Jim would help me to hide a body. Or maybe Bruce? Alfred. Alfred definitely would.)

What time wasn't spent sleeping or munching on protein bars, I used to read through the journal full of notes on Zucco. The map of Gotham from my office at Bristol had been folded down and tucked within the front cover, the whole thing covered in illegible (yet colour coded!) felt tip pen scribbles. Half of the book had been filled with transcribed notes from the case files and my own random jottings – the wall of crazy compressed into one compact package.

I flicked through the pages, trying to figure out where would be the best place to stakeout next (returning to the bar and potentially seeing Joe and Benny again didn't seem like such a bright idea – I liked my head _without_ bullet holes, thank you very much). There were a couple of other known hangouts on my list, but if Zucco really was having problems with Falcone, it wasn't likely that the mob boss would risk a confrontation just to have a drink.

Which left me frustrated and cranky, with cramping muscles from staying cooped up for too long.

* * *

Day four started with a loud _thump_ as something landed on the hood of the car.

I bolted awake, instantly alert and panicked that I had been discovered, only to find a battered tabby cat glaring at me through the windscreen. He had his hackles raised and spat at me as if I had offended him in some way, though that could have been his natural expression for all I knew.

And then I heard voices and approaching footsteps. The cat gave me a final hiss and scarpered away, leaving me with barely seconds to bury the evidence of my occupation and hide in the footwell behind the driver's seat.

“...new management,” a voice that I recognised as the guard that worked the night shift was saying; two distinct sets of footprints getting clearer as they approached. I ducked down further, praying that I couldn't be seen. “Apparently we're getting real cameras and dogs and everything.”

“Really?” someone replied. The two men paused, seemingly right in front of the sedan, though I couldn't look up to check without risking being seen. “What are they gonna do with us? I ain't looking after no guard dogs, they're mean buggers, they are.”

The night shift guard chuckled. “Nah, they're softies really. You wait and see. Come on, let's go check the...”

The conversation faded away as the two men walked off again, but it was clear that it was time for me to move on. If they really did step up the security for the parking lot, it meant that that place was no longer viable as one of my safe havens. I would have to find somewhere else to crash for a while.

After packing my stuff and clearing up my mess, I climbed out of the car and stretched, every joint popping with relief. When I turned to head back to the fence though, the old tabby cat was sitting in my path, looking at me expectantly. There was something incredibly familiar about the feline, but before I could ponder the thought further, he stood and sniffed haughtily, thoroughly unimpressed with me.

“Thanks,” I muttered, in reference to the save.

The cat turned his bum at me dismissively, his tail in the air as he stalked away.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

I had learned a few tricks in my time as an orphaned street rat. The main one being: don't _look_ like an orphaned street rat. If you appeared to be a normal, well-kept kid, grown-up's generally ignored you, assuming that one of the other people around was your parent.

Appearance really did matter. So I made sure that I fit in.

In order to not smell like I was living on the streets, I would steal fresh clothes from the Target store on Thirteenth Street, or sometimes even buy them with my 'mom's' credit card when I was able to look older than I was. It wasn't that hard to access a shower either – a class from Gotham Elementary took swimming lessons every Tuesday morning, and by simply tagging onto the end of the group I could get past the front desk and use the leisure centres' showers. I had even made a friend called Harry, who would chat with me about Batman and never once asked why I was only in class on Tuesdays.

Once, I had even managed to get my hair cut. I walked into a barbers with a twenty dollar note and told the guy that my 'dad' had sent me in while he looked around the used car lot next door; and within ten minutes I was looking like a much more presentable nine-year-old.

Food was relatively easy as well. Picking several pockets in a row would get me maybe a couple hundred dollars (I would then mail the wallets to the police so that they could be returned to their owners – people keep all sorts of keepsakes in them and I would feel guilty whenever I saw an old family photo tucked inside). With the cash it was then just a case of walking into a grocery store and buying what I needed, telling anyone who asked that I was shopping for my 'grandma' (which always resulted in cooing and _'what a sweet little boy'_ type comments). I always made sure to throw in some sweets and soda; things a normal kid would actually buy if let loose with a parent's money, so that the fact that I was buying a lot of non-perishable goods would go unnoticed.

The only part of the life that I had any real trouble with was finding shelter.

My parking lot was compromised with _security,_ of all things, and I had learned that just sleeping in any old car was not always safe. (A car that I had been sleeping in once was actually stolen by someone else, and I had ended up trying to negotiate my release with sparky soda and candy bars...)

Homeless shelters and halfway houses weren't really an option either. There was the possibility that Jim might have been looking for me (if my missing status had been reported this time around, that is) and the shelters were places where the police captain was likely to have contacts keeping an eye out for me. I couldn't risk being found and taken back to Bristol again. Not now that I was this close to Zucco.

Which, more often than not, led to me taking shelter in alleyways and abandoned buildings.

One night, the weather was on my side for once, the unpredictable Spring storms breaking for a surprisingly balmy night, so I opted for the outdoor experience. I was learning which parts of the Eastern Quarter were safer (though not necessarily _safe)_ and picked my alley accordingly.

There was a blanket that I had stolen from Bargain Mart and my latest supply of groceries and candy in my bag, but the irreplaceable things, my photographs from Haly's, were locked at Gotham Central Station. I couldn't risk losing them. And I had learnt that on the streets, anything was up for grabs.

(One morning, I had woken up to find my left sneaker and right sock missing. Why the thief put my right shoe back on, I will never know. How I didn't wake up... _that_ may be the better question.)

The homeless population tend to cluster, safety in numbers and all that, creating tiny impromptu communities that change from day to day. As was the natural order, temporary hierarchies would spring up, dictating who was in charge and who was least important; and who therefore got what privileges (not that there was exactly much 'privilege' to be had). The trick was figuring out where on that scale you were, and not stepping out of place and attracting attention.

It was all body language. I walked down the alley, a narrow expanse between two closed businesses on Seventeenth, subtly analysing the ten or so occupants who had already chosen their spots. It was like walking among a wolf pack, everyone reverted to animal instincts as they scrabbled to satisfy basic needs. I looked for who was keeping their head bowed and eyes averted, and who was glaring at me daringly – who was faking it to keep what they had claimed and who would tear off my legs if they thought that my shoes would fit them.

You'd think that a kid wandering the night for a place to sleep would raise a few eyebrows.

I wasn't even the youngest one there.

Finally I settled on a relatively sheltered spot maybe halfway down the alley, and grabbed a piece of cardboard from a nearby dumpster to mark it. With my borrowed blanket and the night not being too cold, I quickly had a pretty good nest. I sat there, leaning against the brick wall with my knees drawn up to my chest, and vaguely wondered what my parents would think if they could see me right then.

I didn't often think of what they might want for me; I was too consumed on getting them their justice to really think of much else. (Though really, was it justice that I was after? Or was it revenge? Did I even know the difference?) I wasn't looking for approval or pride for my actions – I knew that I had done some questionable things in order to get as far as I had. A part of me really hoped that they _couldn't_ see me from wherever they were. It was doubtful that they had 'homeless thief' in mind when they had planned out all the things that I could be.

I was dragged from my musings by a new arrival. Shuffling down the alley was a man whose age was impossible to determine. His face was masked with a scraggly beard and unkempt hair, that may have been streaked with grey just as easily as it could have been streaked with dust and dirt. His clothes were clearly not his own and several sizes to big, and he had two different shoes on that weren't even the same size. He avoided eye contact with the others completely, and went straight for the dumpster as if it were an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Now, I'm not squeamish, but watching that man dig into a two week old pizza that was more mould than dough, made my stomach turn. I had yet to experience hunger that would make me _that_ desperate to simply eat _anything_ , my own skills as a thief thus far saving me from that. And then he moved onto some leftover Thai noodles that I'm pretty sure were alive and had eyes, and I couldn't just watch. Not when I had plenty of food hidden in my backpack.

"Hey, hey you," I called, immediately pulling curious and suspicious stares from the alley's other occupants, but nothing from the man chowing down on the infested food. "Excuse me, hey!"

A deep, throaty chuckle sounded from the far end of the alley, another man standing and walking down towards us. This guy looked a bit more put together (by homeless standards) his beard relatively maintained and hair tamed back in a ponytail. One side of his face was scarred as if he had been burned, his left eye smaller and hidden beneath melted skin. His clothes were mismatched and worn and covered in a layer of grime like one would expect, but his stance and expression was different from the others. He must have felt pretty safe that his spot and stuff wouldn't be nicked, as he left his prime real estate without a second glance back.

He was the top of this alley's food chain, and his focus was entirely on me. That wasn't a good thing. I had gotten by like I had by _not_ drawing attention to myself; and this was pretty much the exact opposite of that.

"Bob don't speak English," the man said, his grin revealing two incomplete rows of cracked, yellow teeth. He gestured at the first man who was currently making his way through a food item I didn't actually recognise, and probably didn't want to.

I looked between the two men. "His name is Bob?" I asked, sounding incredulous even as I kept my head slightly bowed to show respect. I didn't particularly want to be kicked out of the alley if I could help it.

The man 'in charge' shrugged and scratched his nose. "I call him Bob, he likes it. Right Bob?"

Bob ignored us.

I had to look away as Bob delved even deeper into the dumpster to find some exceptionally old leftovers. The smart thing to do at this point would have been to shut up and go back to not drawing attention to myself, but I couldn't just let Bob keep eating whatever it was that he found next – it would quite possibly kill him. The few items of food in my backpack felt incredibly heavy, my guilty conscience telling me to stop being such a damned selfish chicken. "What language does he speak?" I asked.

The man studied me curiously, as if I were a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit in his alley's jigsaw. He shrugged again. "Don't know. It sounds like gibberish to me."

I chewed my lip for a moment as I watched Bob, trying to figure out his ethnicity. It was hard to determine skin colour through the layer of dirt that coated him in the darkness of the night, and his facial hair covered his features. It was near impossible to even guess his height as well, with his hunched posture and odd shoes.

The man folded his arms across his chest and sighed. "There is a story, though," he said thoughtfully, his gaze flickering from me to Bob and back again. "I heard that he's an asylum seeker from across the pond, somewhere out of the Eastern Bloc. Crazy Bob made it outta there and all the way to England, but instead of staying put he hopped on another boat and came to the land of opportunity. Shame there ain't no real opportunity, eh?"

I hummed thoughtfully, and then decided to test a theory. "[Hello,]" I said in Russian, my second language, making the man raise both eyebrows in surprise and Bob pause in his digging to turn his head slightly. "[Can you understand me?]"

Bob kept his back to me, but looked over his shoulder just enough to meet my eyes.

"[Where are you from?]" I asked, guessing by the slight confusion on his face that Russian wasn't his first language either. The man watched the exchange like it was a fascinating tennis match. Even the other occupants of the alley were looking at me weirdly. I guess no one had managed to speak to Bob before.

"[Romania,]" Bob replied, in Romanian. Typically, a language that I don't actually speak. ( _Romani_ and _Romanian_ are two very different languages, just FYI)

Just that one word from the seemingly mute Bob had the alley of onlookers gasping quietly in shock. I ignored them and gave Bob an awkward half-shrug. "[Can I keep speaking Russian?]"

Bob nodded.

I grinned, and then reached for my backpack, unzipping the top. Without looking, I grabbed whatever was closest, pulling out a pack of bread rolls that I had stolen that morning. Bob's eyes widened at the sight of fresh food – as did everyone else's. I tore into the pack and ripped a couple of rolls off, before offering them to Bob, who was looking at me as if I were an alien. "[Do you want something to eat?]"

Again, Bob nodded, but made no move to come closer. So I tossed the rolls at him.

They were gone in an instant.

Silence enveloped the alley as ten pairs of hungry eyes all bored into me like burning hot pokers. It was damn scary, the amount of desperation that was directed at me in that moment. The way everyone was tensed to pounce – I'm pretty sure some of them were salivating – I thought that they might eat me just as easily as the food in my backpack. I curled in on myself protectively, watching them glaring at me like the nine-year-old bag of meat I essentially was.

"What else you got in the bag, boy?" the man asked, the not-so-subtle hint of a threat edging into his tone.

Wanting to keep breathing, I opened the backpack all the way, and then handed it over.

The man made a choked sound as he saw that the bag was literally stuffed full of food. Once he could drag his eyes away from the precious commodities, he looked down at me appraisingly. The others stayed where they were, waiting for the man's say so, but it didn't look like they would keep still for much longer. "Where'd you get all this?"

"I stole it." We stared at each other for a moment more, the tension rising as I tried to strike the right balance of respectful subordination while still standing up for myself. I glanced at the others who were actually to the point of licking their lips expectantly as we talked. "Please, share it."

The man snorted. "With you?"

I shook my head. "With them."

Apparently, I was just full of surprises, because the man's eyebrows managed to climb all the way to his hairline. All around us, the other occupants looked ready to revolt if they didn't get some food soon, their respect for the man waning as it was withheld too long for their liking. And then the man _humphed_ thoughtfully and turned away from me, doling out the backpack of food fairly and equally. Even Bob got a little more, which this time around he hoarded as he found his own nest to bed down in for the night.

Once it was done, the man came back to stand before me, offering the bag back to me. Hesitantly, I reached up and took it, surprised to find that it wasn't empty. I looked inside to find a portion of the food had been left for me, my stomach growling as it realised that it was hungry.

The man chortled and then stuck out his hand to shake. "The name's Burns."

I though the name was a little on the nose considering the scars on his face, but chose not to comment. I shook his hand, my voice not co-operating as the adrenaline from the perceived danger passed.

"No name?" Burns asked, and then reached down and tugged on the hood of my jumper with a sly grin. "That's fine. I'm gonna call you Hood. Like Robin Hood, you know? Stealing from the rich, giving to the poor? It suits you."

I shrugged my consent, which Burns seemed to take as an invitation to sit down next to me, the larger man somehow fitting into the corner that I had made myself without it feeling claustrophobic. I started digging into my food, while Burns watched his people begin to settle down for the night, sated now that their stomachs were full.

"So, what's your story, Hood?" he asked, almost making me choke on crumbs as a brief flash of my 'story' crossed my mind's eye. I tried to avoid talking by stuffing more food in my mouth. Burns gave me a sideways glance. "Nothing? Come on, everyone's got a story."

Yeah. Mine involved the death of everything I know and love. Very Greek tragedy.

"I lost my little girl," Burns said, completely out of the blue. I had to double take to make sure that I had heard him right, but his sombre expression confirmed it. "Car accident. Drunk driver. I spent every penny I had trying to bring the man to justice through the courts. Ended up losing my wife, my job and my home in the process. That's my story."

The food turned sour in my mouth, making it difficult to swallow. I stared at the concrete before me, trying to figure out just what I was supposed to say in response to a confession like that. But experience told me that there was nothing that I _could_ say. Nothing makes you feel better. Nothing makes the loss hurt a little less.

"My family was killed," I whispered, the words sounding weird out loud. I had never really spoken about what had happened, not even in my therapy sessions with Nurse Dumas. I had refused to acknowledge the Fall in spoken words. But Burns had had the courage to tell me his tale of woe, perhaps I could find the courage to tell my own. "They fell, right in front of me. I got taken to a boys home, but I ran away. That's my story."

Burns gave me the same moment of silence that I had given him; and I expected him to then change the subject, like most people do when a conversation strays into uncomfortable territory. But he didn't. "You're that kid, from the papers, ain't you?" he asked a little bluntly, though his tone was still soft enough to be sympathetic. "The last Flying Grayson."

I physically flinched, fragments from the Fall echoing in my mind's eye, but said nothing.

"They were murdered? The papers says it was an accident," he continued, pretending to be oblivious to the fact that I was entering the early stages of a panic attack; my breathing too quick and my eyes focused on memories that no one else could see. It wasn't that he didn't care, it was that he had a different way of dealing with things – you know when they say that it helps to talk about your trauma? Well, Burns was a big believer in that. He would've been a great AA sponsor. "The cops know who did it?"

_Your merry band of freaks perform some dangerous stunts. It would be a terrible shame if something were to go wrong._

"Yes." I gritted out through clenched teeth, my anger washing the scenes from that night in violent shades of red.

Burns was studying me again, watching every tell and tic that I had like I was an open book to him. "Do you?" he questioned pointedly.

"Yes."

Burns nodded to himself as if he completely understood, and it took me nearly a minute to realise that he actually did. Yes, he had suffered a huge loss; a parent should never outlive their child, but he also had someone to _blame._ Just like me.

"What happened to the drunk driver?"

Burns grinned darkly, the burns that scarred the side of his face crinkling up and making him appear monstrous in the low night glow. "He's not driving anymore," he answered with a sneer. "And he won't be drinking again either."

"Did it make it better?" I had to know. This is what I had been battling with ever since I had decided on my path to getting revenge on Zucco. How far would I be willing to go and would I be able to live with the consequences? But more importantly, did it make the hurt go away? Would _ending_ Zucco _end_ my pain?

"It didn't bring her back," Burns muttered sadly, his eyes as fragile as shattered glass behind the sternness and confidence of his mask. And then his lips twisted a little, a glint of something sadistic in his gaze. "But it did feel _damn_ good."

There was no regret, no remorse for what he had done on the older man's face, just a slightly crazed expression of determination – a look that I saw on my own face every time that I looked in the mirror. He had nothing; had already lost _everything_ , but a vendetta isn't about _regaining_ what was lost. It's about making someone else feel as empty as you do.

"So, Hood," Burns said after a moment, pulling me out of my thoughts and the maelstrom of questions that stormed around my head. "Do you know where the guy is?"

I shook my head, all of my so-called leads on Zucco having left me with diddly-squat to go on.

Burns grinned, even wider than before. "Well, hows about I help you change that?"


	14. Chapter Fourteen

The tabby cat was glaring at me.

I was crouched and waiting on the roof of the old cinema on Moench Row, looking down at the street below while a pair of freaky green eyes burned twin holes in the back of my head. The damned cat had kept springing up in random places ever since that morning in the parking lot; mainly just to glare at me disapprovingly, or sometimes hiss at me for whatever perceived slights that I had somehow committed against him.

I would often wake up to find him sitting on my face.

But that night, I was ignoring the stupid cat and focusing entirely on my latest stakeout. It had been maybe a week or so since I had met Burns, and already the homeless man had managed to find out way more than I had on Zucco in my near-two months of hunting him. In exchange for regular stolen groceries and part-time work as a translator for some of Burns' people, he would ask around and feed me various tips on where to look next.

Which is why I was sitting on yet another rooftop, with my hood pulled up to protect me from the rain and a pair of borrowed binoculars focused on the Chinese restaurant across the street. Burns had told me that the place was run by a legal immigrant who employed a lot of not so legal Asian immigrants, and therefore was unable to ever call the cops because of the risk of ICE deporting them back home. Which made the place the perfect target for Zucco's protection racket.

And, as it turned out, while Zucco generally didn't get personally involved in the violent side of the scheme (i.e. causing bodily harm, destroying property... sabotaging ropes...) he did like to attend the first meeting and make the initial threat. Which meant that it was highly likely that the mob boss would be making an appearance some time soon.

I was _so_ close.

From somewhere behind me, the acoustics of an alley echoed the sounds of muffled voices up to where I was perched. Though words were impossible to make out, there were two distinct tones; one clearly female and nervous, the other male and confident. I spared the voices a glance over my shoulder, before returning my attention to the quiet restaurant below.

The tabby cat appeared beside me, glaring even more intently than it had before (which I didn't even think was possible). He clawed at the sleeve of my jacket, spitting up a storm that had me shrinking back to defend myself.

"Crazy cat!" I hissed at it. "What do you want from me?!"

A scream cut through the night, making my blood run cold. The tabby stopped trying to shred my arm for a moment to stare at me some more, as if to say _duh, what do you think?_

"It's nothing to do with me," I told the cat, who just gave me a look. If felines had eyebrows, his would have been raised. I gestured at the restaurant, a shiny new car that didn't fit in with the degradation of the area around it, rolling down the street. I knew in my gut that Zucco was in that car. _He was right there._ "It's not my problem!"

The tabby shot me a glare so thoroughly murderous that I thought that he might kill me right then and there.

" _Please... please don't... Oh god... somebody help me! Please!"_

The sound of the woman begging reached me even as high up as I was. She sounded so helpless and scared, her assailant letting her scream, knowing that this was Gotham, and no one would risk their own neck to save her. It tugged at my conscience like a fish on a hook, reminding me of my own vulnerability and how Jim and Bruce and Nurse Dumas had stepped up to help me. I couldn't ignore it.

I turned my back on the restaurant, trying to forget about the sounds of a car door slamming closed and Zucco's awfully familiar voice talking to his subordinate. I was so, _so_ impossibly close to finally seeing my family's killer face-to-face, to act on the rage that haunted me _every_ second of _every_ day...

" _NO! No don't... don't touch me!"_

The tabby cat had vanished, typically, as I walked away from Zucco and towards the screams. At the other side of the roof I leaned over the parapet to investigate, looking down to see two figures practically merged into one in the shadows of the alley. The woman was pressed against the brick wall, her wrists restrained above her head by one large hand, and tears streaming down her face. Her assailant was a man in a rain coat and wool hat, his larger frame enshrouding hers as he invaded her personal space.

Now, I was mad. Zucco was _right behind me_ getting away with ruining another person's life. If it wasn't for that man choosing that alley on that night, I might have been getting the vengeance that I so desperately craved right then. I made no attempt to control the temper that scared me so much.

I wanted to _hurt_ him.

Which is probably why I didn't do a whole lot of thinking before I jumped off of that rooftop.

The cinema was barely two stories high, nowhere near the highest jump that I've ever made, but it was still high enough to build up a heck of a lot of momentum. Leaping across the thin width of the alley, I aimed straight for the guy's shoulders, quite possibly with the intent of squishing him. My knees ended up thundering into his back, shoving him forwards into the woman before I grabbed his collar and dragged us both sideways, the pair of us hitting the concrete a lot harder than I had expected.

Pain lanced through my shoulder as I failed to roll out my landing, the jarring impact hard enough for me to blackout for a moment. Once I got my eyes open again, I found myself staring up at the smoggy night sky, rain pelting my face where I lay on the ground.

There came a groan from the man who was sprawled beside me, and I glanced sideways to find him clutching his wrist as he struggled to figure out what the heck had just hit him. The woman was staring at me, her blouse unbuttoned and hands still raised over her head as if she had been frozen in shock.

Well, bad guy subdued, victim unharmed. I should have called it a win. I could have walked away right then, the woman probably running once she got her senses back, hopefully before the man figured out that the devil that had fallen from the sky was just a kid. It would have been easy – fight won, day saved. Job done.

But the rage wouldn't let me leave it be.

I clambered to my knees, which was actually enough to allow me to loom over the guy who was still stunned on the ground, and punched him in the face. As hard as I could. Bearing in mind that I was a kid, it wasn't exactly a knock-out right hook.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that it hurt _my_ hand way more than it hurt _his_ face.

The man blinked and saw me for the first time, the surprise turning to disbelief and then erupting as raucous laughter. In seconds, he was red in the face and practically shaking in amusement, as if my attempt at punching him had been the funniest thing that he had ever seen.

I took this personally, and launched myself at him.

Initially, a nine-year-old flying at him with little fists and an angry face was ridiculous enough to startle the man, who collapsed under the assault; his back hitting the concrete as I tried to pummel the laughter right out of him. But then the humour faded. The man lashed out with a punch of his own, the gold ring on his middle finger imprinting into the soft flesh of my cheek and splitting the skin. The force was enough to send my slight weight flying off of him, our roles very quickly reversed as I found myself squinting through a haze of pain and shock to see him sneering down at me.

Now _that_ was a right hook.

Before I could even think of getting up – running – defending myself – retaliating – _anything –_ a boot collided with my stomach, knocking every cubic inch of air out of me and making the night get dimmer around the edges.

I curled into the foetal position in a vain attempt to protect myself from another hit, but the man just found other places to kick.

He was laughing again, between the thuds of his boot pounding flesh. A solid kick to my shin brought tears to my eyes. He was cursing me out, calling me a _'little shit'_ and other creative expletives that I barely heard through the pain. A stomp on my ribs made me gasp in agony as something snapped. He rambled about the consequences of picking a fight with a guy like him. A hit to my nose and I was breathing blood.

At some point the woman had run, but I couldn't find the optimism to be glad about that while I had the life beaten out of me. Random thoughts zipped through my mind; none of them really coherent enough to hold on to. I wondered if this was how helpless and paralysed Uncle Rick had felt. I contemplated whether or not Bruce would pay for my hospital treatment as well. I prayed that my parents couldn't see me fail.

Everything hurt to the point that I couldn't tell the difference between what was bruised and what body parts had miraculously escaped unscathed. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt.

And then I saw it. Strapped to the man's ankle like some cool accessory. A knife.

I couldn't tell you what I was thinking in that moment; all I know is that I wanted the pain to stop and I had found a way to do just that. It was literally right there in front of my face, as the man continued to punish me with his other foot.

With speed that I didn't know that I was still capable of, I snapped my arm out and grabbed the switch-blade from where it was sheathed, the weapon giving me a brief sense of power in a situation where I had had none. In one smooth motion, I flipped the knife around in my hand and bought the blade crashing down; the glint of metal vanishing as it was buried in the man's boot.

I stabbed him in the foot. And the beating stopped.

I was vaguely aware of the man yelling in pain as he hopped backwards and staggered into the wall; but the relief of ending the torment merging with my own agony prevented me from revelling in my victory. I had bought myself a little time, and I had to use it before the adrenaline left me.

Getting up was nearly impossible. The ability to put one foot in front of the other was a miracle.

The man yelled at me as I made my retreat, using an extensive vocabulary of swearwords to insult me. I was too busy focusing on the simple task of breathing and trying not to fall on my face. I lurched out of the alleyway like a drunk and hung a left, purely because I could still use that arm to support myself against the buildings as I limped along.

I have no idea where thought I was going or how far it was that I hoped to get, but I clearly didn't get there. I ended up stumbling down a different alley; my body aching, my lungs burning, my nose clogged and the world spinning dangerously. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think. And then I was falling.

Some instinct saved me from literally face-planting the concrete, my hand sticking out to break the fall, even if only a little. I ended up landing on my injured shoulder again and then flopping onto my back in an effort to ease the tightness in my chest. My vision was greying around the edges as I blinked rain and blood out of my eyes, staring up at the storm clouds that gathered in the sky. It was weirdly quiet, as if the city had stopped around me, my head feeling fuzzy as I struggled to focus and remember how I had ended up lying there in the first place.

And then something meowed right beside my ear. I glanced out of the corner of my eye to find the damn tabby cat sitting next to me; pawing at my shoulder in a gesture that might have been concern if it were any other cat. Unsatisfied with my lack of reaction, the claws came out, trying to scratch me back to life.

"Stupid cat," I croaked, my voice a bubbly whisper as I choked on my own blood. The tabby cat cocked his head curiously as if he couldn't tell what all the fuss was about, and then proceeded to climb on my chest. The additional weight on my thoroughly abused ribs left me barely breathing, draining the last vestiges of colour from my vision, but I didn't have the strength to knock him off.

All I could think of was that I was going to die in that alley, and when the cops eventually found my body, there would be a cat sleeping on my face. My cousin John was going to laugh his ass off when I saw him again.

I almost smiled as I slipped away.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

When I woke up, it felt like everything was on fire. My leg, my shoulder, my ribs, my head... It was all making a very convincing argument against being conscious. But when I didn't recognise where I was through the haze of pain and too-bright light; fear and survival instinct pushed me bolt upright.

Which wasn't the smartest thing that I had ever done (and I had a _whole_ _list_ of stupid things that I had accomplished). Every bruised and broken body part complained in atonal harmony, making my breath hitch and my eyes water; the strange room I found myself in spinning like a crazy merry-go-round. I sagged back onto my elbows, refusing to completely give up on the aim of being vertical, but unable to really support my own weight as I attempted to breathe through the pain.

A little more aware and awake, I forced open my eyes to take in my battered body. I was wearing a pair of sweats that I didn't remember stealing at any point and definitely did not remember putting on myself, which was more than a little unnerving. A too-big t-shirt covered the bandages that I could feel wrapped around my midsection, more of which were swathed around my right arm from fingers to elbow. Feeling something tight on my face, I reached up to tentatively touch at the steri-strip across my nose, the swelling across most of the left side of my face explaining why I couldn't breathe through my nostrils.

I didn't remember how I had gotten so beat up (a concussion will do that to you) but that surprisingly wasn't my biggest concern. I didn't know where I was, and no amount of blinking stupidly at the small room was helping me to recognise it. I was lying on an old-style metal frame bed, like you used to see in hospitals before they discovered gurneys, the mattress and sheets thin and utilitarian. A stained blind covered the lone small window, leaving the room lit only by a naked bulb that dangled right above me. It had to be night time, I figured that much, but that just left the question of _how long had I been there?_

The off-white walls were covered in faded posters advertising various health concerns and their solutions, telling me that I was in a clinic of some sort, which sparked enough panic to get me sitting up completely despite the pain. If I was in a clinic then there was a chance of me being reported – Jim might be called – I could end up back at Bristol – and I was _so damn close_... there was no way that I could let that happen.

Swinging my legs over the side of the cot reminded me of all the reasons why I was meant to be lying down, my vision greying and my stomach threatening nauseous rebellion, but I ignored them. I had to get out of there, I had to move, I had to... I had to find my damn clothes! And –

"And where do you think you're going?"

I froze in my failed attempt of a getaway, my frazzled brain scrambling for a suitable excuse. I squinted through murky vision at my jailer, a little stunned to see an older woman watching me with an eyebrow raised. She was dressed in scrubs and a white labcoat, her hair tied back in a loose bun and a pair of spectacles perched on the end of her nose like a librarian. She reminded me of vague memories I had of my Nana before she passed when I was really little; right down to the disapproving glare slightly offset by the half-smile on her lips.

"Ugh," was about as coherent as my brilliant excuse got.

The lady tutted and gestured that I should lie back down, and I reluctantly sat back on the edge of the bed, not quite ready to give in entirely. With an eye-roll she accepted the compromise, and then she pulled out a little penlight and set about performing a few checks as she spoke. "I'm Doctor Leslie Thompkins, and you are in my clinic, where you have been for the past two days. You have two cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a nasal fracture and a concussion."

Dr Thompkins paused in her examination to look at me sympathetically. "You are very lucky that someone found you when they did."

I nodded, fragments of memory returning as she ran through my injuries. I remembered the punches and kicks that had left me barely breathing and passed out in a back alley, with detail that left me wincing in hindsight. I remembered fading away, that stupid cat, believing that it was over... I cleared my throat, testing out my unused voice. "Who?"

"I don't know," Dr Thompkins shrugged, her hands slipping into the pockets of her coat as she studied me. "Like most of the people I see here, you were left on the front step for one of my nurses to find. I don't even know your name."

There was a question in there, but she didn't outright ask it as if she already knew that she wouldn't get an answer. Leslie's was the only free clinic in Crime Alley, a place where people with secrets and dark pasts could go for help safely and without scrutiny. I had heard about the clinic from Burns as part of his introduction to street life to help fill in the gaps of my knowledge of Gotham, which at the very least began to calm my panic of being found by Jim and taken back to Bristol.

But then I started thinking about other things. Zucco, mainly. He had been _right there_ , within reach for the first time since _that_ day, and I hadn't even seen him. I didn't regret helping the woman in the alley, I knew that I had made the right choice, but it grated me that the opportunity had been missed. But then again, I had proceeded to get my butt well and truly whooped by _one guy_. Zucco had an army (practically) – how could I even get close? Would I even be able to find him again?

I was worried about how far I would go, morally speaking, to get my justice. The bigger question was: how far could I _physically_ go? One kid vs. a grown man? Yeah, we had already seen how that had gone.

Dr Thompkins continue to watch me curiously, her eyes concerned as if she could read what I was thinking. I shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, making my ribs twinge painfully.

"Who did this to you?" she asked quietly, perhaps her 'no questions' rule not fully extending to young children. She still made it sound slightly rhetorical though, as if her lack of expectation of an answer prevented her from requesting one. I shrugged in response anyway, my thoughts more on Zucco than the guy that had beaten the crap out of me. I was mulling over my failure and likely inability to achieve the one life goal that I had – all my efforts thus far essentially meaning nothing if I couldn't finish the deal.

I'm sure that Dr Thompkins had seen plenty of traumatised and troubled kids in her years in Crime Alley; she could probably recognise someone planning on doing something incredibly stupid (like taking on a mob boss, for example) from miles away. Which was maybe why she was giving me the 'mom look' as I sat there and silently fumed.

"If you're in any trouble," she said quietly, breaking into my thoughts and derailing them, "I know someone who could help. I have this, _friend_ , who, well, he helps people..."

I shook my head, perhaps a little too exuberantly considering how the room tipped sideways. Once the world had righted itself again, Dr Thompkins was right in front of me, a hand resting on my arm and her lips pursed in concern. "I don't need help," I told her, my voice sounding rough and weak and not at all convincing. "I can take care of myself."

Dr Thompkins smirked at me slightly, her expression saying _I can see that._ "Well, okay then," she said instead, her tone both reluctant and defeated. She had had this conversation enough times with hundreds of stubborn kids to know exactly how pointless it was to continue. "You'll need to stay in bed for a few days and avoid any strenuous activity for at least six weeks to let your ribs heal, but you'll be as right as rain soon enough."

"Thanks," I said quietly, even as I plotted my escape.

"I've got some other patients to check on," she explained as she walked towards the door, turning her back on me for a moment. "I'll be back to check on you in about an hour and you'd better be sleeping."

Yeah, that was gonna happen.

The moment that the door clicked closed I gave standing a second attempt. The room only swayed a little bit, which I took to mean that I could completely ignore the doc's advice, and started looking for my clothes. I didn't particularly care about the jeans and ratty t-shirt – I could always steal some more and the borrowed sweats would do until then, but I had to find my hoodie. It was the only item of clothing that I still had from Haly's. I had been wearing it _that_ night, Nurse Dumas having helped me get rid of the bloodstains.

I _had_ to find it.

There wasn't a whole lot of furniture to search through, but with my body aching and loudly demanding sleep, the small room might as well have been a massive labyrinth. I rummaged through the handful of drawers until I finally found the red jumper in the small cabinet beside the door. I grabbed it excitedly, something shaking loose from the pocket and thudding on the carpet. I looked down to see a small pill bottle rolling away from me, my brow furrowing in curiosity.

Carefully I knelt down, wary of every bruise and broken bone that screamed in protest, and picked up the bottle. The prescription on the label told me that it was full of kid-safe painkillers, a dosage guide clearly explaining when and how many to take. It was made out to one Richard Grayson. I smirked.

_Huh. So much for not knowing my name._

* * *

The escape went surprisingly well, all things considered.

Climbing out of the window had been a painful experience. Walking the next few blocks left me gasping for breath and leaning against buildings for support. I could have collapsed right then and there and not have overly cared about my safety for the night, I was so tired. It was cold, and raining yet again, drenching my hoodie and making my swollen face feel uncomfortably numb.

I stumbled along, trying to figure out where I could lay low for a few days, or at least pass out for a while without worrying about being robbed or kidnapped, when I staggered to a stop.

Sitting in the middle of the alley, was the tabby cat.

I cursed at him in Russian, remembering his attempt to suffocate me the last time that we had met. He looked at me without guilt or remorse. "Are you stalking me?!"

Someone chuckled above me. "He likes you."

I whipped around at the familiar voice, nearly tripping over my own feet in the process, and stared up at the woman leaning casually over the fire escape. Selina smiled, and then flipped over the railing and landed deftly beside me. She crouched down in front of me and pulled back my hood to study my messed-up face, tutting disapprovingly. "You should still be at Leslie's, kitten."

I shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled at various injuries. "It's not that bad."

Selina raised an eyebrow, pausing in her examination of the ring-imprint beneath my left eye that made her eyes narrow in anger. "You got your ass thoroughly kicked by a two-bit thug, I'm surprised that you're even conscious right now."

"Wait," I said, pulling away from where she was fussing with the steri-strip across my nose. "You saw that?"

"I've been keeping an eye on you," Selina replied easily. The tabby cat sidled up next to her, rubbing against her boots as she automatically reached down to scratch him behind the ears. The cat had been spying on me?! How did that even _work?_ I felt oddly betrayed by the cat, which was all kinds of stupid considering I didn't even like him, and _technically_ he had kind of saved me a few times – like that time in the parking lot... But if she had been watching me getting the crap beat out of me, _why_ didn't she do something?

"Why didn't you help?" I demanded irritably.

"I expect my kittens to fight their own battles, it makes them stronger," she explained offhandedly, as if this was perfectly normal and caring behaviour. Which in Gotham, it probably was. "Besides, I did help. Why do you think you're still breathing?"

My eyes widened in realisation. "You took me to Dr Thompkins?"

"Of course," Selina retorted. "I wasn't going to let you bleed to death in an alley, kitten."

I shuffled my feet awkwardly, feeling guilty for snapping at her when she had actually saved my life. "Um, well, thanks then, I guess."

Selina laughed softly at me. "You're very welcome, kitten. Though it would have been better if you hadn't have gotten involved in the first place. You know that Tony Zucco was right there."

"You know about Zucco?" I asked, though I shouldn't have been surprised. If she really had been watching me through the stupid cat then it was fairly obvious who I had been attempting to track down. Selina gave me a look as if to say _duh,_ and I nodded in agreement.

And then I slouched despondently, the doubts that had been plaguing me since I woke up playing on my mind. "I don't know what I would have done anyway, it's not like I could even hurt him when I finally do find him," I whined. "I can't even hold my own against _one_ guy."

And then a brilliant idea hit me. "But you can fight though, right? You could teach me."

"I'm a thief, kitten, and a damn good one at that. I don't need to know how to fight," Selina retorted proudly. "By the time that anyone realises that something is wrong I'm long gone and significantly richer."

But I could read her body language and the way that she held herself; everything about her posture and figure said that she could take care of herself, that she was prepared for anything. And I doubted that the whip at her side was just for show. "But you _do_ know, don't you?"

Selina studied me almost warily for a moment, and when she spoke her voice was a lot softer. As if she were worried. "There are other ways to get to someone, you know."

I huffed and shrugged non-committally. As far as I was concerned the only way to satisfy the rage would be to take out at least some of my frustration and pain on Zucco's face. Maybe that was ever-so-slightly violent of me, but I didn't really care. I wasn't sure that I could murder the man, but maybe if I knew a few moves, I knew that I would take great pleasure inflicting some of the hurt that he had caused my family right back at him.

Selina watched my bruised face twist into something ugly as I thought about Zucco, and then sighed. She stood and wrapped an arm lightly around my shoulders. "How about we find you a bed for the night, kitten, and then maybe we'll _talk_ about this fight training that you're after later."

I grinned broadly to myself and let Catwoman lead me away.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Storm clouds gathered threateningly on a night too warm even for June, leaving the air feeling hot and muggy and oppressively dark. Street lamps lined one side of the road overlooking Robinson Park; the ones that were working, that is; the city noise muted in the background. I stood on the sidewalk, shrouded in shadow, and glared at the house opposite.

It was a nice house – big – in one of the few nice areas of Gotham; with a huge colonial style front porch and windows with old-style shutters. It looked expensive and well-kept, and not at all what I was expecting.

I had found him.

Just over two weeks after I had missed him at the Chinese restaurant, I had finally managed to track Zucco down to the hole that he was hiding in. Though it definitely was not the hole that I had imagined. For a guy supposedly being hunted by both the GCPD and his own boss Falcone, Zucco sure was living the high life. From across the street I could see through one of the windows, the unmistakably round figure of Tony Zucco sitting with his back to me, the front room lit by the glow of a huge big screen TV.

Though frustrated with my lack of progress on hunting the man down, I had been somewhat sated with the knowledge that Zucco's way of life had been disrupted almost as severely as mine. I had been imagining him living in fear, waiting for the cops to kick down his door or a silent assassin to sneak in through his window; forced out of his McMansion in Coventry and into some shack in the middle of nowhere; no friends, no allies.

But no.

His safe house was nowhere near lacking in size or amenities. He was relaxed in front of the TV with a glass of wine and a steak dinner. He wasn't suffering at all.

Well, that was going to change.

I had learned a thing or two from Selina in the week or so that she had let me crash on her couch. The main thing being: Don't run into things without a plan. That's where I kept going wrong, acting on impulse and driven by rage into situations that I didn't have a way of getting out of. For example; having to jump onto a moving train because I had no exit strategy, or getting my lights beaten out because I greatly overestimated my own strength (I could go on, but I think you get the idea).

So instead of running across the street and smashing through the front window, yelling like a madman like I wanted to, I stayed put and skulked around and took in the details.

There were at least three visible guards; two thugs in a car on the street out front trying to look inconspicuous, and a third pitched on the porch enjoying a cigarette. Assuming that the back was protected the same way, that meant six guards and the possibility of more inside the house. Not the greatest of odds for a kid that got his ass kicked by one random street thug, but like I said, I had been learning.

And I had been taught by a thief.

Selina had taken me to random buildings around Gotham and asked me how I would break in (apparently she was marginally impressed having witnessed my GCPD heist) and gave me a few tips and pointers. Like how to identify weaknesses in security, and how to use my talent as an acrobat to utilise openings that no one else would ever suspect.

I had picked my point of ingress – an open window on the second floor that was accessible with a few stunts, and only required a small amount of contortion to fit through – and had every intention of scoping out the place a bit better to determine for certain the number of thugs on the property and the best way to avoid them. I was even somewhat keeping my temper in check, stopping myself from following through on the urge to rush in and commit grievous bodily harm on anyone who got in my way.

Images of Tony Zucco begging for mercy and grovelling his apologies flashed in my mind's eye.

I was so damn close.

But then there came a bright _flash_ from behind me, followed by a deafening _boom_.

_What the hell?_

I turned carefully on the spot, the ringing in my ears and the weird shapes and colours blocking my vision making me unsteady on my feet. Blinking the haze away, I tried to see over the hedge that lined Robinson Park, attempting to see what had caused the explosion. Being a kid with an over-active imagination, I was expecting to see a huge crater in the middle of the park (I hadn't exactly come into contact with a stun grenade before) but what I saw instead was so much cooler.

I mean, totally unexpected and not at all cool in any way. Of course.

Robinson Park had been turned into a battlefield. The few lights still working illuminated the full on assault taking place as I climbed the fence to get a better look. The grass was trampled and strewn with (what I assumed were) unconscious bodies, all clad in black clothes with their faces masked. More of their still upright and fighting brethren were surrounding a shadowed figure, everything about their movements screaming discipline and training. Ninjas. _Actual_ ninjas. And the shadowed figure in the middle?

_Batman._

The first time that I had spotted the caped crusader on the roof of the GCPD, I had been mostly unimpressed. He was essentially a guy dressed up as a bat (with a really scary glare – but that's beside the point.) Just standing there in the gimmicky costume, I didn't get why he had somehow earned Jim's respect. But watching him fight? Completely different story. The way that he moved; every punch connecting, every block effective, even the cumbersome cape becoming a weapon; it was practically demonic.

I totally understood why the bad guys feared the Bat.

I was enthralled, like a little kid watching an action movie and rooting for the good guy. The fact that Tony Zucco was _actually_ watching an action movie in his front room barely twenty yards behind me, registered only as a distant thought. I knew where he was, and I also knew that I needed to stake out the house better if I was ever going to achieve even mildly effective revenge. I could afford to _be_ a little kid for a moment.

Besides, it wasn't like I was going to get involved. Right?

Climbing over the fence, I just about cleared the hedge and landed in a light crouch on the grass. This far away from the battle, no one had noticed my entrance, all of them too engrossed in beating the crap out of each other. I shirked around the edge, keeping my distance as I tried to find the best vantage point, eventually settling on hiding behind a tree with a clear escape route should I need to run.

I crouched there and watched as Batman cut through ninjas like they were made of paper. It was incredible. He was just one guy in this sea of highly trained assassins, and it was like they simply couldn't touch him.

Until one of them did. I winced sympathetically as a metal-tipped bo staff connected with the side of Batman's cowl, hard enough to offset his rhythm. It gave another ninja a slight opening, a sharpened kunai slicing through the kevlar across his midsection, just deep enough to draw blood from the shallow wound.

Batman recovered, and soon it seemed as if the tide of the battle was back in his favour, but his movements were different. His posture changed, his body language deviating from calm and controlled to angry and frustrated. Punches started missing almost as often as they hit, even harder than before. Another blow from the bo staff to the back of his knee had him down for a moment, before he was up again and snapping the weapon in half with a gauntleted fist.

There were still a ridiculous number of ninjas (like seriously, _where_ were they coming from?) and Batman was starting to take more hits than he was landing. He would never admit it, but I could tell.

Batman was _losing._

Apparently, I hadn't completely grown out of my habit of running into situations completely unprepared, because the moment that I realised that Batman was actually in trouble, I climbed to my feet. It was too many ninjas for one guy to fight alone. He needed help, and I was the only person around actually willing to do so.

And I had been doing so well too.

I ran down the small hill towards the fight that was culminating near the kiddi-park, just a single tiny figure barrelling towards the unsuspecting ninjas completely unnoticed. Well, almost completely unnoticed. I couldn't resist giving a small battle cry as I 'snuck' up behind the nearest ninja and prepared to, I don't know, hit him or something. The ninja spun around at the sound, kunai ready to cut me in half, but then we both kind of froze.

The ninja's eyes widened in surprise behind his mask as he spotted me and realised that I was just some dumb kid. His grip shifted on the blade, his posture becoming uncertain, the moment of indecision giving me the only opening that I was likely to get. Before he could decide to kill me anyway, I struck out with an elbow to his gut, bringing him just low enough for me to break his nose with the heel of the palm of my hand. I then used his shoulders to flip over his head and land behind him, spinning on one foot and kicking him hard between the shoulder blades.

The ninja went down. And stayed down.

And that was how I took out my first ninja.

Emboldened, I kept going, darting between the bad guys and taking advantage of their initial surprise at seeing a kid in the middle of a fight. I could hear Selina's voice in my head, giving me advice as I remembered to use my knees and elbows instead of my fists – her tip of 'don't use strength when you don't have any' reminding me to use my agility rather than brute force. I headed for the equipment in the kiddi-park, knowing that I could use the climbing frames to my advantage, Selina's lessons ringing loudly in my ears.

_Fight smart or not at all._

Using the monkey bars as an odd set of impromptu parallel bars, I performed a serious of somersaults and flips as I fought, building up momentum to give my kicks more force and keep out of reach of the ninjas' retaliation. The constant movement pulled at my still-healing ribs, but I ignored the growing ache, knowing that if I stopped I would start losing.

Honestly, I think that the only reason that I was winning at all was because the ninjas didn't know what to make of me. Maybe attacking a child was against their code or something, because even as I grew more confident in the fight, I could tell that they were holding back. If it weren't for that uncertainty, I wouldn't have stood a chance – despite my mad acrobatic skills and everything.

"I don't have time for this," I heard Batman growl at some point, his own fighting style growing more brutal and rage driven with each minute that the battle dragged on. He kept looking off to one side as if he knew that the person that had instigated the great ninja assault was watching from the sidelines. As irritating as the seemingly endless fight was, it didn't appear to warrant the cold fury that Batman was radiating. Maybe there was something bigger on the vigilante's to do list, unrelated to the ninjas whose butts we were totally kicking.

(Okay, yeah, I was getting a little bit cocky.)

I was airborne when everything went horribly wrong. Perhaps I had gotten in a few too many good hits, or maybe the ninjas just got irritated trying to swat a Flying Grayson, but all of a sudden, the ninjas revolted. The uncertainty that I had be utilising to my advantage vanished, the entire mood changing like a switch had been flipped. One of the ninjas struck out with a metal-tipped bo staff, catching me across my midsection and bringing me crashing to the ground.

Everything went dark for a moment as the wind was knocked out of me and my aching ribs suddenly felt as if they had caught fire. Survival instinct made me roll back onto my feet even before my vision had cleared, but another hit to my shoulder had me back on the grass.

All the barely healed cuts and bruises from my run-in in the alley felt fresh as I struggled to stand and fight back even as I tried to remember how to breathe. My head was rocking like a boat on the ocean as I blocked what hits I could and lashed out blindly; Selina's lessons leaking out of my ears as I retaliated automatically.

And then there was a burning pain in my stomach, and everything stopped.

I think that I must have blacked out for a minute, because the next thing that I knew I was propped against a climbing frame like a puppet with it's strings cut. I couldn't really feel anything for the moment (that was probably shock setting in) and then I looked down at my hands that were sitting in my lap.

That were covered in blood.

My first thought was: _Oh god, who did I kill?_ The next, slightly more realistic one was: _Holy crap I'm bleeding._

Now, having had several ribs broken and my face pulverised by a guy's boot, you'd think I'd be totally okay with the sight of my own blood. But when it was pouring out of a gaping hole in my stomach 'totally okay' is not a way that I would describe myself. I had been _stabbed_ , and was understandably panicked. Which is when it started hurting, the searing pain taking my breath away as if I had been branded with a hot poker rather than a blade.

Nearby, Batman was tearing through the last of the ninjas and _where had all the others gone?_ Last thing that I had known there was still maybe twenty-odd assassins and now there were only five. They didn't stand a chance against Batman in a bad mood though, and in seemingly seconds they were out cold on the grass. I was mildly impressed and slightly in awe, which mixed with the blood loss left me with an ever-so-slightly giddy expression on my face.

"That was _awesome._ "

Batman turned his glare on me at the sound of my voice, the mysterious vigilante not even appearing out of breath despite the rigorous workout. His cowl was cracked and he stood in a way that didn't pull at the various injuries, but with blood on his knuckles and his jaw set he still looked mighty imposing. "What the hell do you think you're doing here?"

"Bleeding to death," I quipped, somewhat seriously as I glanced down at the dark blood that coated my fingers. "What's it look like?"

I'm pretty sure Batman rolled his eyes at me then, though he still approached me with masked concern and crouched down to get a better look at the wound. His posture changed when he saw the jagged injury up close, an edge of worry creeping into his body language. I looked up and studied his face for something to distract myself from the pain as he placed a dressing over the wound, and blinked. Though half of his face was covered, I knew that I had seen it before. No one else could frown like that.

"Mr Wayne?"


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Waking up in strange places that you don't remember falling asleep in is _Bad._ With a capital 'B'.

Waking up in someone else's bed and wearing someone else's clothes with no memory of how you got there? Even worse. I had heard way too many horror stories in my time on the streets to know all about creepy old men and young boys; Burns having warned me about 'friendly' strangers. So when I saw expensive sheets in a posh room, my instant reaction was to bolt upright.

Which was a _really_ _bad_ idea.

Pain flared like I was being stabbed in the stomach all over again; bright colours dancing across my vision before everything went black and suddenly I was back to staring at the ceiling. On the plus side, it kick-started my drug-addled memory. Flashes of Robinson Park and the endless ninja army crossed my mind's eye; my whole crazy plan of somehow 'helping' Batman coming back to me in painful detail. As well as my revelation.

Batman was Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne was Batman.

Had I dreamed that?

Now slightly more conscious, I became aware of the IV feeding fluids into my arm and the tightness of the bandages around my midsection. The pain was dulling back to only a semi-agonising throb, a constant reminder that I was seriously injured, even though I definitely wasn't in a hospital, or even Leslie's.

The room was dark but clearly large and kinda musty in an unused way. The bed that I was lying on was ridiculously soft, to the point where it felt as if I was sinking through the mattress, and imposingly huge. My pathetically small frame barely took up a sixteenth of the surface area, if that.

Sitting up more carefully than before, I eased out of the bed and set bare feet down on the hardwood floor, every movement pulling at barely healed stitches and leaving me hissing in pain. It was then that I realised that the room wasn't dark because the curtains were closed - the window panes had been covered with blackout paper, blocking out all of the light. And the view.

Unnerved, I unhooked the IV from my arm and rose onto unsteady feet, heading towards door. The short distance that I had to cover left me breathless and shaking, but that weakness suddenly became unimportant as I tried the handle to find the door locked.

Someone didn't want me to know where I was. And they definitely didn't want me to leave.

Batman... Bruce Wayne, was the last thing that I remembered from before I blacked out in the park, but the room that I was imprisoned in didn't exactly confirm that that was who was now holding me. I felt myself beginning to panic – what if Batman was really a Bad Guy? I mean, he dressed like a bat and glared at people, not exactly a hero like Superman. And some of the stories that I had heard...

And I had outed him. I knew his secret.

What if he was going to _silence_ me?

(The fact that Bats had taken me somewhere safe to get patched up and I was indeed still breathing, apparently didn't occur to me).

All I knew was that I wanted out of that room. And some answers would be nice too.

Glancing back, I spotted my clothes neatly folded on top of some antique dresser; my backpack untouched and resting on the floor beside it. Stooping low and wincing at the pain, I grabbed the bobby pins I kept hooked on the strap and staggered back to the door. It took me a bit longer than usual to pick the lock; what with blurring vision and shaky fingers, but eventually it clicked open to reveal...

...a castle? Or, you know, what I'd imagine a castle to look like having never actually seen one. I stepped out into a hallway wide enough to drive a car down, one side legitimately lined with ye-olde portraits and for real suits of armour. I had been brought up in a circus and even I thought this place was damn weird.

Shuffling along in borrowed bedclothes that were at least two sizes too big, I wandered down the hallway under the watchful stares of the painted figures, my whole body tensed as I half expected something to jump out at me. The light that glowed through the windows was dark orange and cast long shadows, telling me that it was late evening, though I didn't know how much time had passed since I had been stabbed. Curious, I looked outside to see manicured lawns and a very distant tree line; with what I could see of the building telling me that it was massive.

Muffled voices came from up ahead, the first sign of life that I had heard in the huge manor house, drawing me forwards. Hanging a left, I spotted a door about halfway down the corridor that was slightly ajar, yellow light spilling into the hallway. My feet padded silently on the carpet as I drew up beside the frame and pressed my back to the wall.

"...else am I supposed to do, Alfred?" the familiar voice of Bruce Wayne was saying, which at the very least confirmed that I hadn't been kidnapped by someone else. I couldn't quite tell if I was relieved about that or not. "He's just a kid. There are procedures, a system. What else can I do?"

"Then why did you bring him here, sir?" Alfred asked with a subtle hint of bite to his tone. It was fairly obvious who they were talking about, which made me shift nervously as if I shouldn't be listening. It sounded as if there were only two people, Bruce and Alfred (who I assumed was the butler that I had seen at the funeral) though I didn't dare to take a peek through the gap to confirm.

"Where else was I supposed to take him?" Bruce retorted irritably, though it didn't seem as if his frustration was actually directed at the butler. It sounded more as if he was angry with the cause of the inconvenience, i.e. me. It made me feel even more uncomfortable than I already did in my borrowed clothes in some freaky manor. I had never intended to get in anyone's way. I was just trying to help.

But then again, I was getting used to the feeling of being unwanted.

"Dr Thompkins would have been discreet," Alfred answered. "In fact, has she not already treated him before, sir?"

Mr Wayne had been watching me too? What, did that stupid tabby cat report to both Batman _and_ Catwoman or something?

"He knew who I was," Bruce said quietly, the disbelief and surprise barely audible in his voice, but still there under the surface. Apparently, no one else had ever figured it out before.

Alfred cleared his throat. "And then he passed out from blood loss and shock, sir. I should think that you would have been able to dismiss the notion as an over-active imagination brought on by a near-death experience. Why confirm his suspicion by bringing him into your home?"

"I..." Bruce hesitated, and then sighed in frustration. "I don't know. It... it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now everything has become so complicated, Alfred. I don't have time to deal with this right now. What else can I do?"

A small noise escaped me at Bruce's dismissive words, though thankfully it went unnoticed. It hurt to know that I was simply getting in the way. I didn't ask for Bruce's help; I didn't make him bring me back to the manor. He didn't have to save my life at the complication of his own. Perhaps it was better that I make myself scarce before I made things even worse.

"The boy is resting now," Alfred replied. "Perhaps it is best to wait until morning to call Captain Gordon..."

I didn't stick around any longer. Following the path back the way that I had come I returned to my room and shut the door behind me. I was getting tired from pushing myself so soon after waking up, but I ignored the exhaustion and the pain as I realised that my window of escape was closing.

They were going to call Jim and get me sent back to Bristol and that betrayal stung more than I'd care to admit. I was upset and uncomfortable and out of place and then I realised with embarrassment that I was actually on the brink of tears. I don't know what I had been expecting, but for some reason, I felt _disappointed,_ as if Bruce had let me down somehow.

Scrubbing angrily at my eyes I tried to focus on the arduous task of getting dressed; struggling into a pair of jeans and tugging my freshly laundered hoodie over my head. I couldn't be distracted by my weirdly emotional response to Bruce's betrayal. I had to find a way out and figure out which direction Robinson Park was in –

– I still owed Tony Zucco a visit.

Finally dressed, I headed for the window, my fingers scrabbling at the edge of the blackout paper so that I could see how viable an escape that way would be. Peeling back a corner revealed a two-storey drop onto grass, which seemed perfectly doable; so I fiddled with the catch and shoved the window open. Squeezing through the gap reminded me of all the valid reasons why movement was a bad thing, but gradually I managed to climb out onto the ledge. I took a breath to ready myself, and jumped.

Which was a really dumb thing to do. Even rolling out my landing like I had been taught wasn't enough to soften the jarring impact; the pain in my stomach sharp enough to steal my breath and leave me sprawled bonelessly on the grass. Tentatively, I touched the bandages beneath my hoodie to find them wet with fresh blood, which was almost enough to make me reconsider my escape plan. But the sound of Bruce's frustrated voice echoing in my mind was enough to get me up and moving, practically driving me away from the manor.

* * *

I don't really remember how I made it as far as the Bob Kane Memorial Bridge; my legs moving on autopilot as the rest of me succumbed to exhaustion. But it felt as if I blinked and suddenly it was night time and raining and there was a limo gliding along beside me.

It took me almost a full minute to realise that the sleek car was moving at like, one mile an hour, trying to keep pace with me.

Blinking stupidly I staggered to a stop and stared at the blacked out window until it rolled down with a mechanical whir. Sitting behind the wheel and watching me politely was Alfred; the butler having even found the time to don a pair of driving gloves and his chauffeur hat before coming out to find me. "Good evening, master Richard."

With blood seeping through my bandages and my whole body cold and aching, I couldn't get my thoughts together long enough to figure out what was going on. "Uh, hi?"

"It is terribly rude to leave without first thanking your host for their hospitality," Alfred scolded lightly, a half-smile on his lips. And then the penny dropped. The butler was there to take me back to the manor; and of course, his first petition to get me into the car was to criticise my poor manners. I almost laughed, and probably would have, if not for his next words. "I am sure that your parents taught you better than that."

Now, when most people find out that you are an orphan, they avoid the 'P' word like its some terrible expletive. They don't want to run the risk of offending you by reminding you of what you have lost. And sometimes that's a good thing. Back then, any mention of my family generally had me flashing back the Fall and locking up in a panic attack. But there was something about the way that Alfred had spoken that invoked different memories; fragments of my parents scolding me for being rude and praising me for remembering to say thank you.

It was odd. I rarely allowed myself to think of my family, afraid as I was of the pain and grief that I had felt since their deaths, but thinking of them then, I realised that I didn't really feel that dark sadness at all.

And that made me feel unbelievably guilty.

"Uh, um," I muttered, before clearing my throat to organise my thoughts. "Thank you for looking after me?"

"You are very welcome, young sir," Alfred replied with a nod. "Though perhaps you should be thanking Master Bruce. He was the one that saved your life, after all."

My eyes dropped to the pavement at the reminder of Bruce and his dismissal, his irritated ' _I don't have time for this'_ replaying in my head. That had stung for reasons that I didn't really understand. I didn't even properly know Bruce, and yet for some unknown reason his words felt like a rejection to me, on some weird subconscious level at least.

"He doesn't want me." I said sullenly.

It was a Freudian slip, or a mistranslation into English, or just tiredness or whatever, but Alfred nodded in agreement regardless. "Master Bruce doesn't know what he wants," he said quietly, more to himself than to me. He sighed, and then looked back through the open window at me, his expression once again entirely professional. "You must be freezing, master Grayson, and I dare say exhausted. Would it not be wise for you to return to the manor this evening?"

I shook my head and backed up a step so that my backpack hit the bridge's railing. I didn't want to go back; not to burden Bruce, or to face Jim, or to return to Bristol. My body started to shiver as if Alfred had somehow reminded it that it was cold, and the dull ache in my stomach became more pronounced, but I tried to hide that as I buried my hands in my hoodie pocket to mask the fact that I hugging myself for warmth. "N-no, I'm okay. I go now."

"Young sir, I really must implore you-"

I tuned Alfred out and started walking again, my only thought being that I needed to keep moving. There was no way that I was going back. I was better off on my own. "I go now..." I repeated, my voice jumbled and barely coherent.

It felt like I was walking really fast, but that was probably due to the fact that my vision was swimming and my limbs didn't quite feel like they still belonged to me. The pain in my stomach was progressing to burning nausea with every half-stumbled step, to the point where I stopped being overly aware of what was happening at all.

Vaguely, from somewhere behind me, I heard the sound of a car door opening, but I was too busy collapsing to really pay it over much attention. A pair of arms saved me from hitting the concrete, the gloves I saw through hazy vision confirming Alfred as my saviour. The butler picked me up as if I weighed nothing, my final moment of consciousness just him muttering under his breath.

"...have to be so stubborn, boy? Just like him."

* * *

" _...where did you find him?"_

" _...Park...think he was sleeping...attacked maybe?"_

" _...lucky you found him...looking since he dis- yes...he'll be returned to Bris-"_

" _...perhaps it would be best... still recovering...see to his personal care..."_

"Alfred, are you sure?" Bruce asked, though even half-awake it sounded like a double-barrelled question. Dragging my eyes open to find the room thankfully dark and not as empty as the last time that I had woken in the manor, I turned my head to the left to see the unmistakable ginger caterpillar watching me. Just past Jim, Alfred and Bruce were standing near the doorway, having some sort of silent conversation that I wasn't awake enough to follow.

"You gave us quite a scare, son," Jim said fondly as he reached across to ruffle my hair. I was admittedly pleased to see him, even as my heavily sedated brain figured out that his presence meant that I had failed in my attempt to flee and Bristol was quite likely to be in my future. His green eyes wrinkled in concern as he studied me. "Where have you been all this time?"

I shrugged in response, my mouth feeling all funny from whatever it was that Alfred had given me. I was back in the borrowed bedclothes with a new IV in my arm; but the pain was a distant memory and it was difficult to really worry about anything. The drugs must have been stronger than before or something, because it was a fight to stay conscious. A fight I quickly lost.

My eyes slipped closed, and when I opened them again, Alfred and Bruce had vanished, leaving only Jim in the chair beside the bed.

"Hey, Dick," Jim greeted. I might have croaked something back, because Jim smiled at me and nodded. "I know you're not with it right now, but I've got to go soon and we need to talk, so I'm just gonna tell you now, okay?"

I think I nodded, I don't really remember.

"I've spoken to CPS now that we've found you, and their arranging your placement back at Bristol," Jim explained. I maybe understood every other word he was saying, but at the mention of Bristol I pulled a face that must have said it all, making Jim chuckle softly. "Yeah, I know, but there's nothing else I can do. But on the plus side, as you're injured, Mr Wayne has agreed to let you stay here for a few days with Alfred looking after you. It's better than Gotham Memorial, trust me."

My eyelids were beginning to droop again, but Jim squeezed my hand, demanding my attention for a little bit longer. "I've been looking for you since the funeral, Dick. You scared the hell out of me. I need... I need you to promise me that you'll still be here when I come get you. Please? Promise me."

Drugged up and barely conscious, I muttered, "'Kay."

I don't think that's legally binding.

Jim sighed and shifted in his seat a moment. "So, I've been hearing stories about a kid in the Eastern Quarter running around on rooftops and looking for someone," Jim muttered quietly. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

I shook my head. Jim smiled at me.

"Of course not."


	18. Chapter Eighteen

So, my official plans for the following few days (according to Alfred) were bed rest, bed rest and _more_ bed rest. I had other ideas.

I vaguely remembered promising Jim that I would stay put, and although that was literally the last thing that I wanted to do, I didn't like breaking a promise. And maybe just this once, I was willing to admit that I was injured and that running away the day before may not have been the smartest thing that I had ever done. So maybe, just maybe, it was better if I recovered now and, you know, ran away later.

Besides, I had plottings.

It had occurred to me, while I was revelling in a fluffy drug haze, that Batman had a lot of stuff. Like say, the cool car, the plane-type thing that I had seen once flying over Gotham, all those gadgets... surely he had to store it all somewhere? In like, a lair, or something? Well, Batman's a good guy, so I don't think that it's actually called a lair, but you know what I mean. A headquarters or base of operations or whatever.

Anyway, I had set myself the task of finding the Batcave. (Well, back then, Bruce just called it the 'cave', like a boring adult-person. Like he just called the batmobile the 'car' and the batwing the 'jet' and... oh. _I'm_ responsible for the _Bat_ _prefix?)_

The trouble was, the manor was _huge._ As in, you could fit the entirety of Haly's circus grounds inside, maybe three times over. And it was all long twisty corridors that looked exactly the same, and with my failed sense of direction, I was just getting lost, repetitively. So, I started naming the corridors by the first portrait that I saw in them; like the galley down to the kitchen became 'Colonial Bruce', and the west wing hall became 'Civil War Bruce'. And that corridor that leads down to the study: 'Stern Female Bruce in Frills'.

(Seriously, why do all of the Wayne family portraits look exactly the same? Right down to the identical glare? At first I thought that they all actually _were_ paintings of Bruce in various costumes... As if the manor wasn't freaky enough...)

Overnight, Alfred had altered a set of borrowed bedclothes so that they actually fit me, so I didn't feel quite so uncomfortable as I padded around the cold, empty halls, though I still snuck around stealthily as if I were some stranger that had broken in. I knew that I shouldn't really be wandering around their home trying to find a secret room; it was very rude of me, but I was also nine and curious.

Alfred probably realised that I wasn't going to stay in bed (he's wily like that) as whatever painkillers it was that the butler had given me, the agonising pain I knew that I should be in was dulled to a slight twinge if I moved wrong. They made me feel a bit dopey as well, which I hated, but they were letting me move around under my own power so I was willing to overlook the side effects.

I was just passing beneath the evil glare of 'Stern Female Bruce in Frills', feeling a little slow and tired but still more stealthy than most kids, when literally out of nowhere, the butler appeared.

"Good morning, master Grayson," Alfred greeted. I just stared at him, wide-eyed, slightly awed by the elder gentleman's mad ninja skills. "Shouldn't you still be resting?"

I had maybe a second to come up with an awesome answer; one that explained away why I was on the other side of the manor to my room and what I was doing practically humming the _Mission Impossible_ theme tune as I tiptoed through the halls. What I actually said was: "I am resting."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Bed rest implies the presence of a bed, young sir. Such as the one in your room, where you should be, resting, horizontally."

"Hori-what-ably?" I asked; my vocabulary not really having that much of a chance to expand while hanging out on the streets.

Alfred looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. "Horizontally," he repeated, emphasising the pronunciation. "It means flat, or level. As in, you should be lying down _horizontally_ in bed, young sir."

"Oh," I muttered, getting the hint. Alfred gestured the way back to my room, and I begrudgingly walked along beside him as we headed back to the east wing. We stayed in silence most of the way, until I noticed that Alfred took a different route than the roundabout one that I had taken to get there. "How do you not get lost?"

"I have worked for the Waynes for a long time, master Grayson," Alfred replied as he led me down the service corridor that brought us round to the main staircase. "But at first, I suppose I did get turned about quite often."

Geography, maps, and really, direction in general was all a bit foreign to me back then. I always got lost if I was on the ground (I still do sometimes – don't tell Bruce). I could only ever find my way if I was high up, looking down. But I figured that that was a Flying Grayson thing. So how did normal people not get lost all the time? "How'd you learn not to get... 'turned about'?"

Alfred smiled down at me conspiratorially. "The paintings are rather distinct, do you not think?"

I laughed quietly as we passed the 'Baby Bruce' portrait that signalled the start of the corridor down to my room. I followed behind Alfred as he opened the door and led me back inside what I thought of more as a prison cell than a room, and then climbed back into the mammoth bed as directed. The painkillers were beginning to where off as when I twisted beneath the sheets the pain flared enough to make me grimace; which led to Alfred double checking the stitches had survived my spelunking endeavour.

Satisfied, Alfred pulled up the covers and stood back. "It would be preferable if you would stay put this time, young sir. You really shouldn't be exerting yourself."

I sighed a bit petulantly. "But I'm bored."

"I imagined as much," Alfred said agreeably, before turning and fetching something from the top of the dresser in the corner. Initially, I couldn't actually identify the flat, rectangular object that the butler was offering me, but then he opened it up and placed the weird computer on my lap (I had only ever seen a desktop before, okay?). "I would rather recommend a good book, but children these days seem more interested in technology."

I liked reading plenty, but I was a little in awe of the cool laptop that I was already playing with as Alfred spoke. I didn't actually notice him leaving, I was just a tad too enthralled by the tech. By today's standards, the thing was clunky and slow and antique, but compared to the dial-up that I was raised on and Nurse Dumas' eighties throwback, that laptop was practically futuristic. It was so much better than the computer that I had initially searched for Zucco on – I could get so much more now, practice some more code... maybe hack something a little more secure than the GCPD...

But what I actually did was open Google, my fingers seemingly typing without my permission.

**||Bruce Wayne||**

* * *

The next day, I mostly followed Alfred's instructions. I stayed in bed for almost a whole hour before getting up and continuing my search for the Batcave. And then I managed to get all the way to 'Stern Female Bruce in Frills' before once again my mission was thwarted by the bat-butler.

"You appear to be feeling much better, master Grayson," Alfred had said with a glint of glee in his eyes. "Perhaps you are well enough to join us for dinner this evening."

Which is how I wound up sitting at the ridiculously long dining table, staring down at my plate of hard to identify posh food, and trying to ignore the thick layer of total awkwardness that blanketed the room. Opposite me, Alfred was seated and politely eating his dinner while trying to break the silence with frequent offers of more food and drink. At the head of the table was Bruce, the source of the tension essentially suffocating us as we ate.

Now, I'm a talker. I like to ramble and quip and am usually quite able to hold a one-sided conversation for as long as one is needed to break down the initial boundaries of uncomfortable silence. But as I sat there, a poor circus brat in a rich man's castle, I couldn't have felt more out of place. Alfred had allowed me to get dressed, but the fact that I was wearing ratty jeans and my hoodie wasn't exactly helping me fit in with the opulence surrounding me. I didn't recognise the food that I was eating (but it did taste like chicken) and the sheer number of various knives and forks on the table...

"I believe that it is time for dessert," Alfred announced as he began to clear away the plates. I automatically went to help, but the butler halted me with a hand on my shoulder. And then he left.

And it was just me and Bruce.

_'I don't have time to deal with this.'_

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as the billionaire's words echoed in my head like a painful reminder that I really didn't belong there. I snuck a sideways glance at Bruce, noting how stiff and tense his posture was, and how carefully he was studying his cutlery; as if pondering the silverware was a valid reason not to acknowledge me at all. It vaguely reminded me of that day in the hospital, the second time that we had met, the same tells and twitches painting a different story to his mask.

There was that same aura of fear.

Was I really that scary?

"Here we are, sirs," Alfred announced as he returned with a tray laden with three bowls. Bruce watched the butler, almost warily, as the bowls were laid out before us, revealing dessert to be: _ice cream_. I grinned up at Alfred as he placed the tray on the sideboard and took his seat.

"Alfred," Bruce said quietly, the first proper word that he had said all dinner besides 'please' and 'thank you'. He gestured at his bowl. "What is this?"

"Why, it is ice cream, sir," Alfred replied, as if he had no clue as to what the problem could possibly be.

Bruce stared at the butler for a moment. "I don't like ice cream."

I think my jaw actually dropped and hit the the table with a loud resounding _thunk_ because seriously, who doesn't like _ice_ _cream_? It was just plain vanilla; literally frozen cream, and not one of the weird flavours that I would have expected the rich and famous to enjoy. How could anyone (who wasn't lactose intolerant, of course) not like that?

"Really, sir?" Alfred questioned; his days as an actor for the Royal Shakespeare company shining through. "I must have utterly forgotten. I only assumed that with a young guest present a simple dessert was called for. My apologies, Master Bruce. I will fetch you something else, right away."

Alfred went to stand, making Bruce glance at me as he realised that we were about to be left on our own once again. "No, no, Alfred," he denied quickly. "That's really not necessary. I'm fine."

"Are you sure, sir?" Alfred confirmed. I watched them both have a silent battle of wits, the slight twitches and facial expressions belying their thoughts. After a moment, Alfred once again settled in his seat and flashed me a half-smile before clearing his throat and taking up a spoon. "Please, do enjoy your dessert, young sir, before it melts."

I nodded my thanks and then grabbed one of the many spoons and dug in, trying to remember to mind my manners and not scoff the frozen treat like it was the only meal that I would ever get. Bruce was glaring at his bowl apprehensively, as if the ice cream would climb out and eat him, which made me look at him curiously. "Why don't you like ice cream, Mr Wayne?"

For a millisecond, Bruce looked like a deer caught in the headlights at being spoken to, before the mask came right back down and he was back to that perpetual frown. "I just don't," he answered bluntly. I almost retorted with a sarcastic ' _that's not a very good reason'_ before I bit my tongue and shoved another spoonful in my mouth. "Why do you _like_ ice cream?" Bruce came back with.

Across the table, Alfred was smiling to himself, but I was too busy concentrating on my answer to pay much attention.

"Because it has good taste," I replied, mangling my English.

"'Because it tastes good'," Bruce automatically corrected. But he was staring at his bowl as if the very thought of ice cream disgusted him, which confused me completely considering what he had just said. I looked to Alfred for help.

"In a declarative sentence, the subject of the statement comes directly before the verb. 'It' as in 'ice cream' comes first, followed by the verb 'tastes', followed by the adjective, 'good'," Alfred explained, and then paused for a moment. "Though what you said is also technically grammatically correct; as a descriptor, the ice cream does 'have' good taste, however that is not common speech."

The English language makes no sense. Even to English people.

My blank-faced expression must have said it all, because Alfred smiled at me warmly. "Your English is still very good, young sir, considering that it is your second language."

"It's not." I said, and then frowned as I realised that that wasn't quite right. "It's not my second language. It's my..." I trailed off as I tried to remember the order in which I had picked up the different dialects at Haly's, and then translate that number in my head. "...seven?"

"Seventh," both Bruce and Alfred said at the same time, though they were both giving me appraising looks as if even my butchering of the English numerical system wasn't enough to dissuade them from being impressed by this new development. Bruce was looking at me with renewed interest, which kind of made me feel uncomfortable and proud at the same time.

I looked down at my half-empty bowl. "So, the ice cream tastes good?"

Alfred smiled at me, but Bruce's gaze dropped to his own bowl as if he had realised that he had absent-mindedly picked up his spoon and loaded it with almost melted ice cream. And then he looked up at the portrait of his parents staring down at us, and the whole tone of the conversation shifted. "It did once."

I looked to Alfred in confusion, but a sad expression had settled on the butler's features as he watched Bruce drop the spoon, and push back from the table as if it had offended him in some way. I probably shouldn't have said anything, but I couldn't help myself. "Why does it not anymore?" I asked.

Bruce looked at me then, and I mean _really_ looked at me, as if I were someone that he semi-remembered from a long, long time ago. "What was the last thing that you ever said to your parents?"

I flinched as if I had been hit, the suddenness of that question catching me completely off guard. We were talking about ice cream, right? Where had that come from? And then I recalled the last conversation that I had had with my father, arguing about John's punishment and the fact that I was grounded.

"'That's not fair,'" I said quietly.

Bruce nodded. "That's what I said too, to my parents," he admitted, not looking away from me once as he spoke. On the other side of the table, I could feel Alfred watching us cautiously, as if he were witnessing us walking a minefield rather than having a conversation. "Because I wanted ice cream, and they said no. And then they were killed. It hasn't tasted the same since."

I looked down, breaking eye contact and sinking back in my seat. Bruce stood and thanked Alfred for dinner, before vanishing into the labyrinth of the manor.

The ice cream felt as if it were curdling in my stomach.

* * *

That night, I couldn't sleep.

The bed was too big and too soft and the room was a dark abyss that surrounded me on all sides. My stomach was aching; a mixture between the throbbing pain of the stab wound, and the unsettled remains of dinner making me feel ill and uncomfortable. I considered getting up, maybe exploring the manor some more; but the huge house at night scared me more than the Gotham streets did.

My head wouldn't switch off. It was as if all my thoughts were at war with each other; things that I had never really thought of before suddenly playing on my mind.

_**That's not fair!** _

Was that really the last thing I had ever said to my Dad? What had I said to my Mom? Did I even tell them that I loved them that day? Did they know that I did anyway?

 _They're so_ _**proud** _ _of you, I know it._

 _Your family will_ _**always** _ _be with you._

I could hear Pop Haly and Jim in my head, reassuring me that even though I was alone, I wasn't _really_ alone, and all of a sudden that didn't make any sense to me. How could they _know_ that Mom and Dad were so proud of me? What had I done since they were gone that they could be so _proud_ of? I blew up our only home, got into fights, ran away again and again. And the one thing that I had said that I would do – revenge on the person that was to blame for it all – I had failed.

 _What did you_ _**promise** _ _him?_

_**That I would make him proud.** _

_I'm gonna make hi_ _m_ **_pay._ **

Where had that iron resolve gone? Wherewas the anger? That uncontrollable rage that made me lash out without even knowing what I was doing? Was I in control of it now, or was I simply no longer mad? I had been hunting for so long, and then finally, _finally_ I had found Zucco. I knew where he was now, so why was I okay with hanging out with strangers when I should be outthere _, keeping my promise._

_I am sure that your parents **taught you better** than that._

But is that even what my family wanted? Would it make them proud? Or were they ashamed that I was using them as an excuse to distract myself from feeling their loss? But then again, did I still feel the loss like I was supposed to? That dark aching pain, numb to everything but that, like I was the night of the Fall. Have I finished grieving now? Was I past it?

Was that allowed?

 _I lost my parents too,_ _**when I was your age** _

_It hasn't tasted the same_ _**since.** _

* * *

Looking for the Batcave became more of a distraction than anything else. Thinking was becoming too much of a waking nightmare and trying to figure how I felt about anything was _way_ too hard.

So I focused on the search; rebelling against Alfred's orders of _yet another day_ of bed rest by getting dressed in my own clothes and walking confidently through the halls as if I wasn't totally petrified of the bat-butler catching me. I was starting to get a feel of the layout, even if it was only ingrained from the amount of times that I had accidentally run myself in circles, rather than any actual skill on my part.

'Stern Female Bruce in Frills' told me that I had ended up near the study again, where Alfred had stopped me the day before with the disastrous dinner invitation. I had never really made it past the painting before, so I was curious to see what was down the corridor. I walked slowly, looking at the different paintings; these ones looking more recent than the antiques that littered every other wall, all of them chronicling the early years of Bruce Wayne.

The family looked happy in the paintings, or really, as happy as anyone can look in oil paint; the frozen images probably the only evidence that Bruce actually did know how to smile once. But that just reminded me of my own late night musings, so I shook my head and pushed onwards.

And then Alfred stepped out of the study, saw me, and looked slightly... _flustered?_ Ruffled, ruffled is better.

"Master Grayson!" he exclaimed, before immediately calming himself. He studied me for a moment as I tried to figure out what had made the unflappable man flap. "You look exhausted, young sir. Whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing," I immediately replied; which, by the way, if you want someone to actually believe that you're okay is the absolute last thing that you should say.

Alfred just looked at me, and then took me gently by the shoulders and nudged me in the opposite direction of the study. "Come, let us have some tea and chat, shall we?"

It was phrased as a question, but when it comes to tea and Alfred, there really isn't a choice. I think it's a British thing. In moments I found myself seated at the table in the kitchen, a steaming cup of coloured water pushed in front of me as Alfred carefully poured his own cup. Out of politeness, I took a sip, and decided that tea wasn't so bad after all. Even it did need like, ten more sugars.

"Have you enjoyed your stay with us, master Grayson?" Alfred asked, thankfully not immediately launching into an interrogation regarding my obvious lack of sleep. I thought back on last night's dinner and the conversation that I had overheard between Bruce and Alfred, and shrugged. On the one hand, I _had_ enjoyed my time at the manor; Alfred had always been welcoming and kind and it had been a really long time since I hadn't had to worry about where I was going to sleep that night. But on the other hand:

Bruce.

I just couldn't figure him out at all. One minute he's like the first time I met him; cold, guarded, scary – almost robotic. And then he turns around and pays for my uncle's treatment and my family's funeral and I almost feel like there's a human being behind the mask. How can someone care enough to save your life one moment and then dismiss you as an inconvenience the next? Bruce made even less sense than the English language. And that was saying something.

Alfred nodded as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. "Master Bruce is not used to guests. He has become rather, _involved_ in his other life as of late, and I am afraid that he has quite forgotten how to talk with anything other than a fist."

I toyed with my cup, watching the milky liquid cool. "Batman's less scary than Mr Wayne."

The butler looked at me thoughtfully, and then took a sip of his tea. "Indeed he is, young sir."

We fell back into silence again, with nothing but the chinks of porcelain and the ticking of the wall clock on the other side of the room to break it. Compared to the grandness of the manor that housed it, the kitchen wasn't anything particularly special. There were no high tech gadgets, as far as I could see, and no expensive décor or whatever. The space was practical, but homely. Just like Alfred.

"Captain Gordon called for an update on your condition earlier," Alfred said after a while. "I informed him that you were still resting, but recovering well. He will be coming to collect you tomorrow evening in order to take you back to the care home."

"Oh," was all that I could think to say. I really did appreciate everything that Alfred, and Bruce, had done for me, but it was still a cold reminder that Bristol was back in my immediate future; which didn't exactly fill me with joy. "Thanks."

The temptation to run away before Jim came to collect me was high. But I _had_ made a promise (as delirious as I was at the time). After everything that Jim had done for me, I could stay put for just a little bit longer. And besides, he hadn't asked me not to run away from Bristol now, had he?

(Though really, I think it was rather implied...)

But then it occurred to me just _why_ I wanted to leave Bristol, and I was surprised to realise that it had nothing to do with Tony Zucco. I simply didn't want to live in that home with all those other orphans waiting with the slim hope that maybe some day, someone might adopt me. I didn't want that confinement, that constant reminder that I had no family; and while living on the streets was far from easy, it was still more freedom than I'd ever get at Bristol.

I wasn't thinking about keeping my promise to my uncle. I wasn't imagining Zucco in pain and suffering from my vengeance. The boiling rage was only a simmering anger when I thought of the mob boss that had killed my entire family. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't forgiveness in the slightest...

...I didn't know _what_ it was.

Alfred finished his tea, and then looked at me with concern. "What is troubling you so, young sir?"

I squirmed in my seat for a moment, admiring my half-empty teacup for something to focus on. I could feel Alfred watching me, patiently waiting for me to decide what I was willing to say. I glanced around the kitchen, until I finally allowed myself to meet the butler's gaze. I don't know what possessed me to talk right then, but I knew that I trusted him. "Am I a bad son, Alfred?"

The butler's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Master Grayson, why on earth would you ever think such a thing?"

"Mr Wayne, he's still..." I trailed off as I struggled to find the right words. "Marked? Scarred? The death of his parents is like a new wound, even all these years later. It's still what drives him. But I..."

All the worries that had been keeping me awake the night before started swirling round in my head again. My emotions weren't doing what they were supposed to. The very mention of ice cream made Bruce clam up like his trauma was fresh, but when Alfred had spoken of my parents, I had barely reacted. Did I not _care_ anymore?

"My Dad used to say that I... [look too far forward]..." I said in Romani, automatically repeating his words as I remembered them as I tried to figure out the best English translation. It was hard to explain what I meant in a language I had only recently come to use regularly. "See ahead? I don't know, but he said that I... I brushed off the things that I didn't want to think about. Is that why it doesn't hurt the same, Alfred? Is that why when I think of them, I only think about... their lives? Am I brushing off what happened to them?"

Alfred shook his head adamantly. "What you are doing is _healing_ , young sir. You are accepting that things change. But moving on and forgetting, are two very different things."

"But Bruce..."

"Is not an example to follow," Alfred finished with force that I would rarely see from the butler. "I dare say that it is better to celebrate the way that someone lived, than to be driven by how they died."

I sank back in my chair and stared at my teacup as I thought over Alfred's words. Did that mean that it was okay for me to not be angry all of the time? Did that mean that I was _allowed_ to want to do something for me and not for them? Did that mean that didn't have to become like Bruce?

And what was I meant to be instead?

Alfred reached over and squeezed my shoulder. "You are a far kinder and brighter soul than most who have seen what you have. And you should never endeavour to change that."

* * *

Feeling lighter, and yet still dreading my inevitable return to Bristol, I spent my final day at the manor determined to complete my search for the Batcave. And guess what:

I found it.

Alfred only ever appeared to stop my search whenever I got near the painting of 'Stern Female Bruce in Frills', and his reaction to finding me standing just outside the study pretty much confirmed that it was a no-go zone. So obviously, that's where the entrance to Batman's secret lair just had to be.

(I'm just a detective like that.)

It was just a case of getting past the bat-butler long enough to sneak in and find the elusive door. Which became significantly easier when I learned that Thursdays were Alfred's designated day to buy groceries, meaning that no one was around to stop me. So, not much actual sneaking required, but I was nine and it was fun to pretend.

Inside Bruce's study is _weird._ You would expect it to be all utilitarian neat and organised without the barest personal touch; just like the mask that he wore on a daily basis. But it isn't. The desk was strewn with paperwork marked with the Wayne Tech logo. That morning's coffee mug was still waiting for Alfred to come along and whisk it away. One wall was lined with shelves full of books; though a glance at the titles revealed that most of them weren't the musty textbooks that you would expect.

And then there were the photos. The room wasn't full of them or anything; but dotted around there were at least six photographs, all of them of Bruce's parents. Family photos from _before_.

But the picture that took pride of place in the frame perched on the edge of his desk, was a photo of Bruce and Alfred taken outside of the manor. Judging by how tall Bruce was in the picture, it had to have been taken after his parents had died. And though his eyes were still dark and brooding like always, there was the slightest hint of a smile on his face.

The study reflected a side of Bruce that people rarely get to see. He really was human after all.

Who knew?

Putting down the photo frame exactly where it had been before, I turned my attention to trying to figure out where the secret door could be and what mysterious item triggered the mechanism. I started pulling out random books from the shelf like they did in the movies; knocking over the bust on Bruce's desk and spinning in his chair.

(Okay, that last one might have just been for fun.)

But nothing was working. I was absolutely positive that the secret door had to be in the study, but no matter what I tried or where I looked, I simply couldn't find it. I ended up slouched in Bruce's chair and sulking, hating the weird silence of the room.

And then my eyes settled on the massive grandfather clock on the other side of the room, which by all accounts, should have been ticking loudly but was merely standing there, utterly still. Humming thoughtfully to myself, I dropped out of Bruce's chair and wandered up to the clock, wondering why the thing wasn't working, and how Alfred and Bruce could let something stay broken when they were both such perfectionists.

Curious, I started fiddling with the thing; opening the glass door and setting the pendulum swinging, and trying to figure out if there was a key to wind it up with or something. Ultimately, I ended up just turning the clock hands round the face, trying to force them to learn to move by themselves.

So no, I didn't amazingly know the magic time to set the clock to in order to open the door. It was pure luck that I kept turning the hands until the time said 10:47. I actually jumped when there came a loud _click_ , thinking that I had broken the broken clock even more than before. But then the clock swung forward like a door, revealing a secret passage beyond, and I grinned.

I had found the Batcave.

Following the steep stone steps down, I felt like Indiana Jones or something. The whole thing was insanely cool, and I hadn't even seen the actual lair yet. Because the cave? The cave was pure _awesome._

Being as small as I was, I remember the cave as this enormous space; twice the size of the Big Top with the ceiling so high that it disappeared into shadows. Bats were chittering from somewhere I couldn't see (and seriously – the Batcave had _actual bats_ in it?) Most of the lighting came from portable camping lamps, casting everything in a green glow as if the space wasn't eerie enough as it was.

It wasn't as high tech back then as it is now. There was a computer; or really several, all networked together like the Frankenstein monster of desktops; and the wall of gadgets and the workbench pretty much haven't moved since then. There was the medical alcove (just one gurney back then) and the clearly well-used gym area; the batmobile parked on the platform by the waterfall entrance and the jet waiting beneath the hidden hatch in the ceiling. It was all incredibly amazing.

But then there was the dinosaur. And the giant penny. And the oversized playing card.

I think in that moment, I became a Batman fanboy.

* * *

At six o'clock sharp, Alfred took me down to the main living room to wait out the final hour of my time at the manor. It felt weird, sitting on the couch and looking around the huge space. I was just beginning to get vaguely comfortable; used to the large rooms and creepy portraits and the almost lonely atmosphere that blanketed the house. I liked the mystery of the place, and Alfred was brilliant, and being this close to Batman's HQ? I kinda loved it.

Part of me definitely didn't want to leave, and it wasn't just because I was on my way to Bristol.

Bruce came down to join us not long before Jim was due (most likely at Alfred's insistence) and took a seat in the armchair by the fireplace. I hadn't seen him since the failed dinner the night before last, but he still looked just as sad as he had then. But then again, I think frowning is his default expression.

It was strange how I could easily see the similarities between Bruce Wayne and Batman; there are certain things that you simply can't mask after all, but at the same time I still saw them as two distinct personalities. Or really, two different people even. Bats was the mask, the hero that you saw before you know the cracks that lie beneath; the good guy that always does the right thing. And Bruce... well, he was human. And flawed. And incredibly confusing to me.

It was hard to make my mind up whether I even liked him or not. He switched from caring to distant in the same millisecond. I figured that he must have just thought of me as some random kid getting in the way; but sometimes, rarely, there were glimpses that maybe he didn't find me completely annoying.

I had never met someone so impossibly hard to read.

We kind of just sat in silence and watched each other warily like we were caught in some sort of stand off, until Alfred had finally had enough. "Would anybody care for some tea?" he asked, purely to break the ice.

"No thank you," I replied at the exact same time as Bruce, which led into another uncomfortable silence.

"Have you got all of your belongings, master Grayson?" Alfred tried again, his patience seemingly endless. My backpack, with the few practical things that I carried with me, was resting at my feet, which pretty much answered the question, but I nodded anyway. "Very good, young sir."

I shuffled in my seat a moment. "Thank you again for looking after me, Alfred. And you too, Mr Wayne, for letting me stay. I'm sorry that I got in your way."

Alfred shot Bruce a very pointed look, which made the grown man cringe like a schoolboy.

"Uh, you're welcome," Bruce replied, and then paused to choose his words under Alfred's gaze. "You weren't in the way, Richard. I hardly noticed that you were here actually."

I think that this moment is the closest that I have ever been to witnessing Alfred face palm. As it was, the butler sighed and covered his mouth for a second, as if to physically stop himself from saying something out of turn. "Never think yourself a bother, young sir," he said to me instead. "You have been very pleasant company these past few days and I have greatly appreciated your presence."

I smiled shyly and ducked my head, not really used to being paid a compliment. And then the buzzer for the manor's front gate sounded which Alfred left to answer, leaving just me and Bruce all alone.

Awkward silence settled once again as neither of us really knew what to say to each other. I never really knew what to say to Bruce; especially considering a conversation about ice cream had managed to take a dark turn last time. Which is when it occurred to me that maybe Bruce was more comfortable as Batman just as I was more comfortable _talking_ to Batman. Small talk was out, but maybe... shop talk?

"The ninjas, in the park," I blurted suddenly. "You know who sent them, right? What did they want?"

Bruce glanced at the door to confirm that Jim wasn't right outside, ready to burst in and catch us talking masks. "It was just an old acquaintance trying to get my attention."

I furrowed my brow, confused. "Your friend sent ninjas? Doesn't he have your phone number?"

Bruce gave a half-laugh, more of a scoff really, as if he couldn't quite remember how to chuckle properly and he hadn't expected to be tested so abruptly. "She always did have a strange way of communicating."

I wondered who this mysterious person could be – the only woman that I knew of in the game was Selina, but she was more inclined to send a feline army rather than ninjas. "But that's not the big thing, is it? There's something else going on, right? You said that you didn't have time at the time and..."

"Captain Gordon," Alfred announced as he opened the living room doors, bringing my sentence to a grinding halt. Jim was standing just behind the butler in his suit and trench coat as if he had come straight from work, his exhaustion evident in every aspect of his body language. But the moment that he saw me, exactly where I promised that I would stay put, he grinned brightly.

"It's good to see you, son," he greeted with relief as I stood up to say hi. "How are you feeling?"

I shrugged my answer. My stomach still ached with a vengeance every time that I thought about it, but I didn't feel half as bad as I did a few days earlier, so I pretty much declared myself healthy. "I'm okay. Alfred's been great."

The butler smiled at me. "Master Grayson will need to take it easy a little longer so that he doesn't pull the stitches, but he should be right as rain in a few weeks at most."

"Excellent," Gordon nodded and gave my shoulder a squeeze as if he still couldn't quite believe that I was really there. It made me feel bad about running away before. Maybe I should have left him a note or something, to let him know that I was okay (and totally knew what I was doing). But at the time, nothing but finding Zucco had seemed important. Another promise that I had yet to keep. "Well, we should be going, then."

Alfred sighed almost imperceptibly, and then handed me my backpack as if it was the hardest thing that he had ever done. "I wish you all the best, young sir. Please be careful."

I thanked both Alfred and Bruce again as Jim shook their hands, and then I was being led towards the front door and the police captain's waiting town car. I remember then, as I reached the bottom step of the front porch, glancing back at the butler and Bruce; just catching Alfred's quiet comment as they looked on from the door frame.

"You will regret doing this, sir."


	19. Chapter Nineteen

So, there I was, back at Bristol, again. Yay.

But it wasn't exactly how I remembered it. When Gordon had walked me through the door and left me to have a chat with Mr Merrick, I had noticed several big differences. Such as the three additional locks on the front door and the newly installed motion sensors _and_ the shiny new alarm system. Bristol had felt like a prison before, but now it was just ridiculous.

Seriously, I was half expecting _lasers._

I would later learn that the new toys were of my own doing. My escape from the home and Gordon's subsequent investigation into my disappearance had sparked a chain reaction. Within the first two months of my leaving, eight more boys had chosen to run away as well, prompting a visit from CPS. In response to this, the Warden had stepped security _up._ So really, I had only myself to blame.

It was gone eight o' clock at night, so most of the younger kids had already been sent to bed (where I was supposed to be, but Jim was still talking to the Warden and I wanted to say thanks before he left) so I was all alone in the home's dining room. It was somewhere between a small hall and big room, with three long tables laid out like a school cafeteria. The hatch to the adjoining kitchen was closed, dinner long since over, the only light coming from the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

I had only my thoughts for company. Which was not a good thing.

I had no next step. I didn't even know _what_ I wanted anymore. It had been so obvious before, with the rage dictating every action – hunt Zucco down and make him pay. Simple. There was nothing but that and maybe surviving just long enough to see justice done. But now... now I wasn't so sure anymore.

Did I still want justice for my family? _Hell_ _yes._ Imagining Zucco, hanging out in his big house with his nice life without a care in the world still made my blood boil. That anger was still there and would probably never truly go away, but now I could see other things beyond that tunnel vision. I had seen what loss and grief and difficult lives had done to those around me, my possible futures reflected in the people that I had met since the Fall; each one a cautionary tale.

Burns – slightly crazed and left with nothing but the satisfaction of vengeance dealt against the killer of his daughter. Selina – a thief stealing for the thrill with nobody but her cats for company. Bruce – clinging to the loss of his parents so tightly that he was unable to connect with anyone; becoming Batman purely to get justice for others because his own parents' killer was never caught. And Jim – dedicated to law enforcement despite his frustration with the corrupt system around him.

I respected them all, but I was also afraid of becoming just like them. They had all dealt with the hand that Life had given them in different ways, but ultimately, they all shared one thing. They were all alone.

Was there a way to get justice for my family, payback for my pain, freedom from Bristol and the confines of the care system, and help others, _without_ losing the ability to care about other people?

And how did I go about becoming that person?

I sighed in frustration and stared longingly out of the window. I had barely been in Bristol ten minutes and I was already itching to leave. If it weren't for the sensor that I had spotted on the frame (if the window was opened or broken the Warden would _know_ ) I probably would have made my bid for freedom despite having not yet thanked Jim for all he's done. With extra locks on the doors, motion sensors in the halls and alarms on the windows, escape was beginning to look hopeless.

Maybe I _should_ have run when I had the chance.

Approaching footsteps made me glance at the door expecting Jim, but the gait was wrong and I realised that there were three distinct sets and not one. And then Boxer was standing in the doorway, flanked on either side by his lieutenants, Skip and Dean/Dom/Derek (or whatever his damn name was).

Boxer smirked as his beady eyes settled on me. All alone. Not an adult in sight. I figured that I was pretty much doomed. Okay, sure, I had kicked his butt before, and I now had some mad skills and could even take down a few ninjas – but that was before I had been _stabbed_ by said ninjas. My stomach twinged painfully at the memory as I tried to search subtly for an exit. But then Boxer said something that made me freeze.

"Hello, Hood."

_Say what?_ It was just some random nickname that Burns had given me, but the way that the bigger kid said it made the two simple words sound like they had a hundred different meanings. How did Boxer know about that name, and why the frick was he smiling like he knew all of my secrets?

"Didn't think I'd see you back here," Boxer noted as he and his buddies took their seats at the table like we were old friends. Nothing about their body language was overtly threatening, but I still leaned back warily as Boxer slouched forward across the table, trying to keep my distance. I didn't know how to act. In the past I had been both victim _and_ bully, but now I couldn't figure out what side of that dynamic I fell on. I was expecting retaliation for our last meeting, not... not friendly conversation. Boxer smiled slyly. "What with your little vigilante gig out there."

_My what now?_

Boxer and his buddies burst out laughing at the clueless expression on my face, but it wasn't malicious. In fact, the tense atmosphere mysteriously vanished like a burst balloon and I realised then that I had proven myself. By fighting back way back when, and having since developed this supposed vigilante rep, Boxer now viewed me as an equal rather than a target. I wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing (I didn't want to be a bully after all) but as it meant that I wasn't about to get beaten up, I decided to roll with it.

"He doesn't even know, that's adorable," Skip exclaimed with an eye roll, Dean nodding in agreement. "You're an _urban_ _legend,_ bro. Taking down muggers and dodging gunfire? Some people even say you're _Batman."_

"What?" I stuttered, a little dumbstruck. I had _met_ Batman, and Batman did _not_ get his butt thoroughly kicked by some random guy in an alley; nor did he have to jump off of bridges to escape a couple of armed goons. But apparently, the story had spread, completely brushing over the part where I was just a stupid kid _way_ out of his depth.

"They're a calling you t'Red Hood on account of you a'wearing a hoodie," Dom answered in his thick accent, gesturing at said well-worn jumper.

"They are?" I asked, wondering who this mysterious 'they' was and why they were coming up with nicknames for me. And here I was thinking that I was going around all unnoticed and stealth like. "How did you know it was me?"

Boxer barked a laugh like the flat-faced dog that he so closely resembled. "How many brats do you think there are that can jump around on rooftops like they're part monkey? _You're_ the circus freak with the recently deceased family – seriously, you're like something out of a comic book. Who _else_ could it be?"

(It's a good thing that I wasn't overly concerned about having a secret identity back then, or I would have just been busted by a bunch of middle schoolers.)

But that's when a brilliant idea hit me. My conversation with Alfred, my observations of the adults that had helped me, all the musings of who I was and what I wanted to be... it was obvious. I didn't have to be like Burns or Bruce or Selina or Jim or any of them. They weren't examples to follow. I could forge my own path where I didn't have to hang on to my grief like Bruce, where I didn't have to cross the line to get revenge like Burns, where I wasn't alone like Selina or stuck like Jim.

I could be like Batman.

Now, I understood that the persona was a mask, something that Bruce had created to channel his pain and anger into something productive, but I saw its true purpose as well. Batman was a hero, someone who made the streets a little safer and made the super villains think twice. And that was something that I could aspire to be.

Helping people. Stopping bad guys. Apparently, I was halfway there already.

And wasn't Zucco a Bad Guy?

"The Red Hood," I muttered to myself, testing it out.

Dom nodded as if he liked the sound of it, and then leaned forward, his posture changing from friendly catch-up to talking business. "So, considering your new occupation as the mini-bat, we was thinking that a'staying in this prison is gonna be putting a dampener on your extracurriculars," Derek pointed out matter-of-factly.

It was true. It was gonna be tough enough escaping from Bristol once – trying to sneak out on a nightly basis? Pretty much impossible. I had to get out of there, the desire for freedom becoming need now that I thought I knew what I wanted.

"We can help with that," Boxer offered; his sly grin making me think of the devil bartering for my soul. I studied him suspiciously, trying to figure out how genuine he was being even as I waited for the other shoe to inevitably drop.

"How?"

"Well, as you can see, the Warden's gone a bit nuts with the security lately," Boxer explained, gesturing at one of several blinking lights in the dining room alone. "There are sensors everywhere – every room, every corridor, every door and every window. Everything is locked down three different ways, even during the day. But at night? This place is more secure than _Arkham_. You ain't sneaking outta here without all hell raining down on you."

Boxer paused for dramatic effect. "Unless, of course, you know the _codes_."

"And you do?" I asked sceptically. "How?"

"I bribed the guy that installed the system," Boxer shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Fifty bucks from the Warden's own wallet and I own the keys to the kingdom."

Skip slouched back in his chair with a smug smile. "And we might be willing to share with you. For a price."

Well, that didn't sound _foreboding_ at all. I figured that with time and some skulking around I could find my own way out of the prison disguised as a care home (seriously, Arkham should be taking notes) but I wasn't feeling particularly patient. It could take days, if not longer, and to a nine-year-old, that was practically an age and a half. No, I was wary of what Boxer was offering, but if the price was right... "What do you want?"

"Well, a favour, of course," Skip answered, and then glanced at Boxer, deferring to his leader.

Boxer took a breath, almost hesitantly, all humour gone from his demeanour. "The Warden took something from me. And I want it back. However, it's in his office which I don't have the code to, in a lock box that I can't pick. Considering the stories that I've heard about _you_ , I figured that'd be a piece of cake for the Red Hood."

It did sound easy, actually. Easy enough for Boxer to do himself to be honest, giving his position as top of Bristol's food chain. There _had_ to be a catch. "What is it? That the Warden took?"

The larger boy shifted, clearly not wanting to tell me. "My phone."

"A phone?" I crooked an eyebrow in disbelief. "All this for a _phone?"_

"Heys, do we judge youse for being overly attached to a red jumper?" Derek jumped in defensively. "The phones a'got some sentimental value, a'ight?"

I didn't see how a cell phone could have sentimental value, but I nodded my understanding. Besides, at least it was something small that would be easy to sneak out once I got it. It would just be a case of finding the best way into the Warden's office and picking a lock. Nothing that I couldn't handle.

A knock sounded from the doorframe, and I glanced up to find Jim standing in the hall, smiling at me as he took in the sight of me having a civil conversation with other kids my age. Boxer seemed to recognise the police captain and shrunk back a little, but his buddies were smiling as if we weren't just conspiring to rob the Warden. "Hey kiddo," Jim said brightly. "I gotta go now."

I climbed to my feet and followed Jim into the hall, where he kneeled down and put his hands on my shoulders like a proud father. "Making friends, I see," he grinned.

"Something like that," I shrugged.

Jim seemed to take that as a confirmation as he pulled me in for a brief hug, before letting go and standing up. "Remember what Alfred said now, you've got to take it easy for at least a few more days, so no more great escape stunts, got it?"

I smiled innocently, but made no promises.

* * *

It was a terrible plan. And that's coming from the guy who chose a bright red hoodie as his ingenious disguise.

The next morning at breakfast, Boxer and his buddies staged a fight. (I know, _the_ most unoriginal plan _ever_ … Hey, we were kids…)In the middle of the dining room full of boys, they made a show of coming over and sitting with me, like sharks circling their prey, and then loudly began trying to rile me up. For a moment, I thought that our truce was over and this was the retaliation that I had been expecting the night before, but then Boxer actually _winked_ at me, like he thought he was something out of a movie.

I sat through the first round of insults, trying to not let the words get to me when I knew that there was no real bite behind them, but it was one of the hardest things that I had ever done. Slights against my heritage, circus jokes… those I could take. Until my family was brought into it. Maybe Boxer and his friends thought that I was acting still, because they didn't let up. I could feel my anger boiling beneath the surface, my hands clenched around the bench so tightly that it hurt, and my teeth gritted to the point that I could actually hear them grinding. Around us, the other boys were watching the powder keg burn, waiting for the bang.

Boxer knocked my knee under the table to get my attention, and then shot me a warning look, telling me that the Warden had just walked in for his morning inspection and that it was time to step things up.

I didn't need telling twice. My anger was real as I launched myself across the table and tackled Boxer to the floor. Some small, logical part of my mind knew that this was all part of the plan and that I should be pulling my punches – only going so far as to make the fight look real; but that little voice was drowned out by the waves of red that crashed across my vision. Boxer hadn't pulled his punches with the insults… why should I?

Distantly, I registered the shouts of the other boys encouraging us to pummel each other. I could feel Skip and Derek tugging at my arms and trying to drag me off of Boxer, before I did some serious damage beyond the bloody nose and black eye that he was already sporting. I had to stop, had to pull back… but it was so hard to reign the anger back in once I loosed control.

"ENOUGH!" the Warden shouted, bringing the room to total, deafening silence.

Panting, I let Skip and Dom drag me off of Boxer, looking down at my bloody knuckles with fear. I had thought that I had my temper tamed better than that. I had thought that I was stronger than that.

I was wrong.

Someone dragged me up and onto my feet and out of the dining room; taking the route that I vaguely recognised would lead to the Warden's office. It was a small consolation that the plan had actually worked when I was more hung up on the fact that I had taken things way too far.

Since Selina had taken me in for a couple days and taught me a few things, I had thought that the mindless rage that had led to me trying (and failing) to beat up the mugger in the alley was behind me. I hadn't felt it so prominently; just a background noise that I could mostly ignore. But while hunting for Zucco, everything had been from a distance – my 'control' hadn't truly been tested. It had now.

And I had failed.

"I knew you were trouble," the Warden muttered, dragging me out of my thoughts. He was standing behind his desk and glaring down at me like I was the source of all of his problems. "The moment that you arrived, I knew you were a curse. Fucking gypsy."

I stayed silent, not trusting myself to speak.

The Warden rolled his eyes and heaved a put upon sigh. "I didn't want you back, but CPS insisted that there was nowhere else for you to go, so I _had_ to take you in. And the first thing you do, the _first thing you do_ , is pick a fight," he muttered, talking more to himself than to me. "I knew that this would happen. I told them that you were dangerous. But no, I've gotta take you in and _keep_ you here, or the high and mighty Captain Gordon's gonna get me investigated. Again."

He leaned forward and met my eyes. "So you listen here you little shit. You are gonna learn to behave or so help me I will find ways to _make_ you learn. You are going to be quiet. You are going to go to school and get decent grades. You are going to make friends and play nice with the other boys. And when Captain Gordon comes back to visit, you're gonna tell him just how much you love it here at Bristol."

The Warden stared at me threateningly. "Are we clear?"

Before I could answer, the tinny ring of the Warden's cell phone interrupted us. He checked the caller ID and groaned in frustration, before glaring at me again like the whole thing was my fault. "Stay put."

With a slam of the door, the Warden left, leaving me completely alone and unsupervised in his office. I waited a moment to make sure that he wasn't coming right back, and then stood and looked around. The plan was still in motion despite my straying off-script; and considering all that we did just to get me into the damn office, I wasn't about to waste the opportunity.

It didn't take me long to find the lockbox, and even less time to pick it, the whole thing barely a challenge. In fact, I found the exercise oddly calming, a distraction from the thoughts in my head and the echoes of the Warden's words. I found the phone and pocketed it, putting everything back as I had found it and returning to my seat just as the door handle began to turn.

The Warden stood in the door frame and studied me suspiciously for a moment, and then gestured over his shoulder. "Go see the nurse. And remember what I said."

I nodded and scarpered, ducking under the Warden's arm just before he could shut the door on me, and then walked down the hall to Nurse Dumas' office where Boxer was waiting.

"Did you get it?" he asked immediately, wincing as speaking pulled at the various bruises that I had given him. It was just the two of us, Nurse Dumas having gone somewhere once she had patched Boxer up. I pulled the phone out of my pocket and handed it over, watching curiously as he took it fervently and then was instantly checking it for messages or whatever. "Thanks."

I blinked. The last thing that I had been expecting was gratitude considering that I had essentially beaten the crap out of him. Okay, it was part of the plan, but I don't think that Boxer had been counting on the possibly broken nose or the split lip or having half his face swollen up. I shifted guiltily. "Sorry, I…"

"Don't mention it," Boxer derailed my apology as he looked up from his phone and half-smiled at me. "I went too far, you reacted. And besides, I reckon I got about three days off school so I probably owe you one anyway."

I scoffed lightly and leaned against the counter opposite the gurney Boxer occupied, watching as he held the phone like it was his only lifeline. "What's so important about the phone?"

Boxer looked up at me, silently judging how much he could trust me. And then he sighed and glanced down at the phone clutched in his hand. "My… my dad. He was a cop. But he… he took a bribe that he shouldn't have done; and then he did some other things to try and cover it up, and then… and then Gordon exposed him as a dirty cop and then… Well. Long story short, he ended up in prison, which is why I'm in this dump."

He chewed his lip a moment. "The Warden, he, uh, he listens to the calls you make if you use the landline. So I saved up all my allowance so that I could buy this crappy thing, just so, just so me and my dad could talk, you know? Every Saturday he calls me. It… it keeps me sane."

I nodded in understanding, knowing what it was like to be alone.

"But whatever, right?" Boxer shrugged, trying to go back to his confidant mask as he slipped the phone into his pocket. He pulled out a slip of paper. "A deal's a deal."

I opened the paper and glanced at the numbers scrawled across it; the codes to the alarms and my ticket to freedom. "Thanks."

Boxer grinned at me, and then held a hand out to shake, which I took.

"Good luck, Hood."

* * *

And then it was all down to me.

Little over twenty four hours after Jim had dropped me off, I was making my escape. I had read somewhere that the REM cycle or something or other was deepest at 3am; and although that meant pretty much nothing to me when I was nine, I figured that it meant that people would be tougher to wake up then. So I lay there, waiting, listening to the other boys I shared a room with drifting off to sleep.

I didn't have much stuff to take beyond the backpack that I had stashed under my bed with my sneakers, ready for my mission impossible, Boxer's codes tucked safely inside. I had even gone to bed early and hidden the fact that I was wearing my jeans and hoodie under the thin blankets, though in the heat of summer, this had turned out to be a very uncomfortable idea. On the plus side, it kept me awake, until finally, _finally_ , it was time to go.

The bed creaked as I sat up, but not a single person stirred; which was probably that REM cycle thing working its magic. Not wanting to test it much further, I kept careful and quiet as I shoved on my shoes, grabbed my bag and tiptoed like a ninja right out of the dorm.

Once out in the hall it was just a case of following the route I had planned out during the day – Selina had taught me how to spot motion sensors and predict their range and move around them accordingly, a skill that I was putting to use in the best possible way. In that part of the building, where all the dorms were clustered, there were plenty of blind spots that were easy to navigate. But the closer to the front door that I got… the harder it was to move.

I would love to say that I was doing flips and cartwheels like they do in the movies to avoid the cool laser grid, but that is pretty much the last thing you should be doing when faced with _motion_ sensors. Selina had told me that most systems are set to a certain height so that it isn't triggered by household pets or whatever, and although there were no pets to be had at Bristol, the same principal applied. So no, there was no dignity or awesome stunts to be had as I pretty much crawled along the corridors, achingly slow, towards my freedom.

The Warden must have had a remote or something for the system, because I couldn't imagine him crawling like I was to the box every morning to disarm it. (And now I'm thinking that I should have just stolen that…hindsight's 20:20…)

Eventually I reached the box and climbed to my feet, unfolding the piece of paper as I flipped down the face to reveal the keypad. There were like, a hundred sensors around the front door, keeping me from going any further, but they all blinked out of life as I shut them down with four simple digits. Grinning, my final obstacle was simply the front door itself; and well… various locks and deadbolts and chains were nothing to a thief.

Seconds later, I was standing on the front steps of Bristol, home free.

Except that I forgot one last thing.

On the third step down, I was suddenly bathed in bright, blinding light that had me blinking and panicking. The Warden had set up one of those motion triggered porch lights that was on freaking steroids, flooding the front of the building with white like it was a close encounter. His room was right above it, purposely so that it would definitely wake him if someone (i.e. me) had made it that far.

I had a split second to pick a hiding spot. I dived into a bush.

Brambles and branches and other sharp pointy things stabbed me as I lay in the dry mud and squinted through the leaves, but I ignored them and held my breath and prayed that I couldn't be seen. The Warden pulled open his window and leaned out to get a good look, his little eyes seeming to search me out and settle on the probably half-crushed bush.

And then there came a loud _meow_ , drawing the Warden's attention to the scruffy tabby cat sitting on his front step grooming himself without a care in the world. "Stupid cat," he grumbled under his breath as he slammed his window closed and flicked off his light.

I breathed a sigh of relief and clambered carefully out of the bush so that I was crouched low on the front path, and then turned and smiled at the cat. "Thanks Sneaker."

Sneaker sniffed, and bowed his head as if to say ' _you're_ _welcome'_ , before scarpering off into the night.

I figured that that was an improvement in our relationship.

* * *

It was almost dawn by the time that I reached Robinson Park, the large house belonging to Tony Zucco looming over the tiny street. I snuck around the edge of the property, keeping hidden behind the white picket fence until I reached the bottom of the long garden and hopped over. Far out of sight of the various guards defending the house, I climbed the large tree and settled on a piece of wood that had been nailed to it like a platform.

I sat there for maybe an hour, just thinking. I _never_ used to think this much before the Fall. Everything was so simple back then. Every day the same, and yet still different enough to be interesting and exciting. Never any doubt about what I was supposed to do or where I was supposed to go. The hard decisions already made by someone else.

But now, now I had to worry about how I was going to eat and where I was going to sleep (admittedly of my own doing considering that I had just run away from _shelter_ and _food_ , but hey, whatever). I had to figure out how I felt and who I could trust. I had to decide what I wanted to do and who I wanted to be.

It was time to make a damned decision and stick to it.

I wanted to be like Batman, a hero – the Red Hood. I knew that, it felt right. I still had things to learn (like how to pick my fights better) but that was okay, as long as I was helping people. My family could be proud of that, right?

And then of course, there was Zucco.

He couldn't get away with what he had done, that much was obvious. I wanted justice, or revenge, or whatever you wanted to call it; but I wasn't sure that I trusted myself. At Bristol, losing control like I had, it had reminded me how dangerous I could be – how unpredictable. If I broke into Zucco's house right then and confronted him, how far would I go? And could I stop myself before I went too far?

And then Selina's words echoed in my head:

_There are other ways to get to someone, you know._

So maybe… I didn't _have_ to face Zucco and test my control…? It wouldn't be letting him off the hook… It could be… _poetic justice._ He took my family, my home, everything, from me. I could… _take_ something from _him?_

"What are you doing in my treehouse?"

I nearly fell out of said treehouse at that question, startled out of my thoughts as I was. I glanced down to find a girl, maybe around my age, with golden brown hair and dark eyes, glaring at me defiantly with her arms folded across her pyjamas. Surprised, I shrugged uncertainly. "I'm sorry?"

"Is that an apology or a question?" she demanded.

"Uh…" I flubbed spectacularly. I am so glad that I would eventually get good at coming up with excuses, because back then I was useless, and it always came back to bite me.

The girl harrumphed impatiently. "Who _are_ you?"

You know when you have one of those fantastically blank moments when you can't remember your own birthday or how to even spell your name? Yeah, I was having one of those moments. My brain had literally stalled having been caught so unexpectedly, and when put under pressure to answer questions, I ended up just spouting the first word that came to mind. "Robin."

The girl studied me a little longer, and then stuck out her hand to shake. Considering that I was sitting in a tree a metre or so above her head, it was more of a symbolic gesture, but I appreciated it regardless.

"I'm Sonia. Sonia Zucco."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! Just wanted to say a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the wonderful people leaving comments and kudos! I am absolutely terrible for not replying to comments and I just wanted to let you all know that I really appreciate people taking the time to leave a few words. If anyone ever has any theories/questions/suggestions or whatever, I am always open to ideas and love hearing your thoughts :)
> 
> So yeah, just a huge thank you and I hope you all continue to enjoy!


	20. Chapter Twenty

One thing that I had learned early on in my search for Zucco, was that the guy had a lot of stuff (or 'assets', as the case files liked to call them). He had at least eight cars ranging from classic to sporty; a supposedly valuable wine collection, a variety of antiques (including a diamond encrusted something or other) and a thing for first edition books. Apparently, he had a daughter too - which was _nowhere_ in the research that I had done (but that's a whole different issue that I'll get to later). Bottom line, the guy was a collector. Which meant that I had plenty of targets to choose from.

But I decided to think big for my first hit.

I went after his McMansion in Coventry.

I had checked the place out early on in my hunt, finding the mansion deserted – all the furniture covered in dust sheets and anything of any value or interest long gone. The only sign of life was the suspicious looking electric company van perma-parked out the front, a couple of guys in suits and sunglasses coming and going at strange times. It was obvious that with the feds watching the house, Zucco wouldn't be back for a while, so I had moved on.

Now though, I saw an opportunity. It just seemed like such a waste – that huge house, just sitting there, all unoccupied and silent, when I knew plenty of people who could do with a roof over their heads.

From where we stood across the street, I turned to look at Burns. "So, what do you think?"

Burns grinned at me. "I think I may know some people who'll be interested."

I gestured at the electric company truck idling in the summer heat. "The feds are watching the front, but there's no one around the back. So long as you stay out of sight I don't think they'll bother you."

"I'd love to see them try," Burns shrugged. I was wary of letting him and the others take the risk of being caught; but Burns didn't seem overly concerned and, putting it bluntly, it wasn't as if they had anything to lose. "Besides, it'd be worth it to see the look on Zucco's face when he sees the place," he smiled slyly at me, and then squeezed my shoulder. "We'll be as right as rain, don't you worry."

I _was_ worried, but I nodded anyway. "Fancy the tour?"

It was barely any effort at all to sneak past the feds and wander around the side of the property. I had already made a hole in the tall hedgerow to work as our secret entrance; and I had left the back door unlocked on a previous visit to the mansion. It was just a case of showing Burns the best route to take and remain undetected, all the way up to and through the kitchen door.

As you'd imagine, the mansion made opulence look tame. Solid wood floors, granite worktops – every gadget and gizmo a modern kitchen could have, gleaming like new. But I walked past all of that to show Burns something that he would _really_ be interested in. With theatrical flourish, I opened the larder door to reveal the fully stocked pantry.

Burns walked up to the shelves of food with a look of reverent wonder, before finally dragging his eyes away to glance back at me. "I knew you were golden, Hood… but this…?"

Eventually, I managed to get him away from the kitchen and deeper into the house. As we wandered through the halls and rooms, planning how we were going to turn Zucco's mansion into a homeless hotel, I explained that the water and power had been turned off. Burn's assured me that he knew some people who could help with that; and I realised then that I hadn't just offered him and the others a roof over their heads. They were going to enjoy the luxuries that most people took for granted, and _that,_ that made the risk entirely worthwhile.

Burns left me on my own while he went and checked out the grounds a bit more, so I decided to venture upstairs. I had never really explored the upper levels during my previous incursions into the mansion, being more interested as I was in finding Zucco at the time. It was pretty much what you'd expect from a rich man's house; all show and not a lot of personality. Except for one door at the end of the hall.

A hand drawn sign taped to the wood announced it as Sonia's Room.

I felt a pang of guilt as I thought of the girl that I had met a few days before. Following the revelation that Zucco had a _daughter_ (and seriously, how did _that_ happen?) I had ended up chatting with Sonia and learning that she was actually really nice and not at all like her father. She was funny and interesting, if not a little entitled; and I saw in her the same desperation for a friend as I had felt myself. I wanted to be that friend, but… well…

'You're father killed my entire family' is a really weird relationship to have with someone.

Tentatively, I opened the door and stepped inside the pink princess room. I was surprised to find how much stuff was still in it. None of the furniture had been covered like the rest of the house, and there were still clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Trinkets and toys lined every flat surface, completely untouched. It felt horribly like one of those bedrooms once owned by missing children; more of a shrine to a past life frozen in time than part of a home.

It was clear that while Zucco had made sure all of his material possessions were packed up and protected, his daughter had been left to grab something at the last minute. The only thing I could see missing from her room was the photo from the frame tipped over on her nightstand.

The room belonged to a happy little girl, not the lonely Sonia that I had met.

Feeling bad for intruding, I turned to leave, but not before my eyes settled on the soft toy taking pride of place on her pillow. The stuffed elephant stared forlornly back at me, and before I had even registered what I was doing, I had picked it up and shoved it in my back pack.

Leaving the room behind me, I purposely made sure that the door was locked. I didn't care what happened to the rest of the mansion, but Sonia's room… that would stay untouched.

* * *

As it turned out, my first lesson in becoming Batman wasn't how to fight crime. It was how to _find_ it.

It's harder than you'd think.

It was a Friday night, warm without being oppressively muggy and only the thick city smog to block out the stars. In a city as corrupt as Gotham, there should have been a smorgasbord of crime to choose from – a fight to pick in every alley and on every street corner. But no.

Seriously, how did this patrol thing work?

And how did I go about getting my own signal in the sky?

After hours of wondering around aimlessly, visiting all of the spots that I had learned to avoid and still finding nothing even remotely illegal, I decided to stop sulking over the lack of action and just be glad that the city was quiet for once. I was disappointed (not that there wasn't any crime – that's a _good_ thing…)but that my decision to actually be a hero wasn't getting off to the flying start that I was hoping for. But like they say, when one door closes another one opens.

You see, I hadn't just _found_ the Batcave to have a good look around or whatnot… A couple of cool things may or may not have been… _liberated_ as I perused the collection…

(Okay, so I was a thief and an opportunist… deal with it)

Tugging down my hood (it was like a bazillion degrees) I perched on the edge of the roof of the Queen building on 9th, my legs dangling twenty-plus storeys above ground level. Way below, little ant-sized people and toy cars made their way to wherever it was that they were going at two in the morning, but I ignored them in favour of my backpack. I reached in and pulled out the toy that I had been dying to try.

A grapnel gun.

It was only a crappy mark one or two version, clearly not designed for city travel (Bats never really used it for anything more than dramatic entrances back before I came along). It was a bit on the heavy side and lacking the same finesse of the other Bat gadgets, and it was just a one-shot wonder - before the re-coil and set button had been added for continuous use. It was like Spiderman leaving his web all over New York – a trail of evidence we'd rather no one followed.

I played with it for a little while, getting used to the grip and figuring out the mechanics of how it worked. I hadn't picked up any refill cartridges, meaning that I would only get the _one_ swing – I wasn't going to waste it. For over a week I had been waiting for the perfect time – my chance to fly again.

(And no, I am not counting jumping off of a bridge. There were no bad guys this time – no bullets or trains or fleeing for my life. Just me, jumping off of a building for the sheer hell of it. Perfectly normal.)

There was a junkyard about a block away with a mountain of mattresses growing daily at its centre (my back-up landing spot for if I missed my target roof) and I had already scouted the flagpole that would be my fulcrum, and calculated the swing. There's a lot more thought that goes into grappling across the city than you think. Maybe that's why Bats usually takes the car.

As prepared as I was ever going to get, I stood up on the parapet and looked at the city sparkling below. For a moment vertigo hit me, the ground seemingly miles beneath me swirling mockingly in my vision. It scared me, the concrete – gravity. It still does. It so easily took everything from me after all. But heights, falling, flying… there was nothing to be afraid of. I'm a Flying Grayson. The clue's in the name.

So when I stepped off of that ledge, I felt nothing but the thrill.

A free fall should be terrifying. To most everyone else, it probably is, but I loved it. I felt safer falling through the air than I did with both feet on solid ground. It just felt more right, more… natural.

Down, down, down I went, hurtling past five or so storeys of mirrored glass windows, quite possibly laughing my head off as I passed and scaring the crap out of anyone staying late at the office. And then at the last possible second, I took the grapnel gun to hand, aimed at the flagpole –

\- and missed.

That was actually a good thing, I realise now. The pole wouldn't have been able to take the force of the swing, most likely snapping under the pressure; but at the time, I had that petrifying moment of 'oh, crap' followed by the jolt of the line catching. The grapple had impaled the side of the thankfully brick building, maybe six or so feet to the left of the flagpole. Which made every calculation that I had done _very_ wrong.

Soaring through the air, both hands tightly wrapped around the grapnel gun as the wind tore at me, I would love to say that I did the new sums instantly in my head and adjusted accordingly. But that'd be a lie.

I was too busy screaming.

It was part abject terror, part insane exhilaration, as I controlled the arc of the swing on instinct alone. Relying entirely on my gut, I guessed the right moment to release the line and prayed that I was right.

And then it was back to falling again, the ground rushing up to meet me with frightening speed. But then I saw the mattress mountain, looming up out of the darkness like a catcher's mitt with the promise of a soft landing.

Well, actually, mattresses aren't that soft. Something that I learned that the hard way. I smacked into the side of the mountain at who-knows-what speed, the dumped mattresses offering very little forgiveness. Stunned, I dropped backwards and tumbled about halfway down the slope until I ended up spread-eagled on a particularly lumpy ex-bed with a spring digging painfully through my backpack.

I was bruised, and quite possibly bleeding, but I ended up in a fit of giggles anyway as the adrenaline ran its course.

Maybe I have a daredevil complex or something, because all I could think as I lay there trying to get my racing heart back under control was:

_When can I do that again?_

* * *

A couple of nights later, I found myself back at Robinson Park.

I don't really know why. It was unlikely that Zucco had heard about the new occupants of his mansion just yet, but part of me was still yearning to see a reaction. To see some sign that my new plan of action was working. But what I actually saw instead was an empty safe house.

For a scary moment, I thought that Zucco had moved on and that I would have to track him down all over again; but then I spotted one of his guards still sitting dutifully on the front porch, keeping an eye on the neighbourhood. No, Zucco was coming back – but considering that he was essentially a fugitive, from his boss _and_ the cops, where could he have gone?

The answer came just as I was about to leave and call it a night. A squeal of tyres on tarmac snapped my attention to the end of the street, where an expensive looking sports car was veering wildly around the corner. A mailbox was sacrificed as the Porsche mounted the sidewalk before thudding back onto the road; swerving dangerously close to the other parked cars. Finally it shuddered to a stop halfway across the driveway of Zucco's safe house.

On the porch, the guard quickly stood to attention and watched the Porsche warily, though he was making no move for his weapon. Further up the road, a black SUV turned the corner with significantly more control than the sports car; carefully coming to park behind the Porsche just as its driver stumbled out into the road.

I recognised Tony Zucco instantly. I hadn't really seen him since that day at Haly's beyond peeks through windows and the photographs in the case files, but he's pretty distinctive. He had put on weight; his rumpled Italian suit straining at the seams, and his posture had lost some of the confidence that it had then, I noted smugly. They were only small, _small_ signs of stress, but I was taking it as a win. Perhaps his new lifestyle was affecting him (though nowhere near enough).

He staggered back away from the car and glared at the damage done to the front bumper and bonnet. There was a moment of pure silence from everyone present; as if all of Zucco's guards were holding their breath in preparation for the explosion to follow.

Carefully, yet so very loudly in the apprehensive quiet, the passenger door to the Porsche opened. Sonia stepped out onto the pavement, and then turned to her father with her head bowed.

"LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!" Zucco yelled; bursting the silence with his slurred words. He gestured at the dents and scratches and then took a step towards his daughter, who shrunk back instinctively. A learned behaviour.

I had no idea what had happened, but it was clear that Zucco was heavily drunk, and this wasn't exactly an uncommon occurrence, judging by Sonia's response. He continued yelling at her (the lack of a reaction from the neighbours telling me that that was pretty normal too) and getting threateningly closer to her, but she didn't move out of the line of fire. How Zucco could possibly blame Sonia for his crappy driving, I didn't know and I didn't care; all I felt was the almost overwhelming need to run across the street and protect her.

A very small voice of reason, and maybe a little fear, held me in place. There was a reason that I was going after Zucco from a distance, and as angry as I was at seeing him tear into his own daughter… I wasn't 100% sure what I would do if I dived into the middle of the drama.

But that didn't mean that I was letting it go.

Maybe ten minutes of accusations and screaming later, Zucco shouted himself hoarse and stumbled up to the Porsche. He placed his hands almost lovingly on the bonnet, and then hissed at Sonia "Get out of my sight."

Without another sound, Sonia fled into the house, leaving Zucco to tear up over his precious car. I watched in disgust as he finally left the trashed Porsche and lurched up the front path, his entourage of guards following behind him and taking up their positions around the property.

I was a little bit in shock as I stayed hidden on the other side of the street in the shadow of the park. Zucco was a bad guy, in every sense, but I hadn't realised just how nasty he was. From an outside perspective; the racketeering that had cost my family their lives could be seen as essentially just business. Cruel and unfair and evil, but still, in a way, logical. But to treat his own flesh and blood like that?

I had felt somewhat guilty, going after Zucco while knowing that I would be taking a father away from Sonia – the whole point of the hero crusade was to keep other people from getting hurt and suffering loss. But after what I had just witnessed, that didn't seem like so much of an issue anymore.

Zucco deserved everything he got.

Or really; he deserved to lose everything he had.

His car was so important to him? Then I would take it away.

Wary of the guard still sitting on the porch, and the other two that I had clocked walking the perimeter, I scarpered across the street in a low crouch and ducked down beside the Porsche. I peeked through the windows to double check that the movement hadn't been spotted, and then crawled down to where the fuel tank was waiting.

Zucco had neglected to lock the car behind him as he had mourned the damage done, which meant that it was barely any effort to flick open the fuel door and then twist off the cap.

Still moving quietly and carefully, I slipped my backpack from my shoulders and found the spare shirt that I kept buried at the bottom, tearing off part of the sleeve. I didn't have anything to soak it with so I was going to have to settle for a slow burn, but that was fine. With a grin I shoved the rag into the gas tank, and then took the zippo that I had stolen from some random guy a while back. It took a couple of tries to get the ex-shirt sleeve to light, but once it did, I bolted quick.

I got to the other side of the street and vaulted over the fence into the park while the rag was gradually eaten by the flames that got closer and closer to the gas. I scaled a tree by the hedgerow to get the best view and then waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

I was just coming to the conclusion that the fire had gone out before reaching the tank when _**BOOM.**_

A wave of heat followed by flying car parts nearly knocked me out of my tree, but I held on and watched with glee as the guards scrambled to respond to the attack. They started yelling at each other and aiming their weapons all around as they searched for their assailant. Said assailant was busy trying not to laugh too loudly.

Apparently, I wasn't very successful.

"THERE!" one yelled. Gunfire followed.

I cursed creatively under my breath as I clambered through the branches, trying to avoid the shredded leaves and splintered bark that showered around me as the bullets tore through the old oak. Ultimately, I fell out of the tree in my haste to avoid being perforated, my landing less than stellar as I rolled up and onto my feet and sprinted deeper into the park.

I spent the next hour avoiding the guards that scoured the grounds like bloodhounds looking for me. Fresh bruises and a large gash down my right arm throbbed as I ran and hid and snuck around like a fugitive; but with the pillar of smoke from the burned out Porsche visible from every angle, I couldn't help but grin.

Totally worth it.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

"You came!"

The loud exclamation dragged me out of my thoughts to look down at Sonia, who was standing beneath the treehouse with a look of surprised wonder pasted on her face. I hadn't really agreed to see her again, (what with the massively confusing issue that her _dad had killed my whole family)_ but it was the day after the exploding Porsche incident and, in brutal honesty, I had only really swung by to try and catch Zucco's reaction.

But Sonia was grinning at me like I was Santa, so I waved and smiled back.

After a moment though, her face fell as she shifted nervously. "I thought you might not," she admitted, glancing over her shoulder at the house that seemed to overshadow her even at this distance. "I thought I might've maded you up. Daddy says I do that."

"[Your dad says a lot of things,]" I mumbled in Romani under my breath, feeling that familiar anger burn.

Sonia looked at me curiously. "Huh?"

"Nothing," I shrugged and then offered her a hand to help her climb up into the treehouse. Having seen what I had the night before, I knew that Sonia was just as much of a victim of Zucco as I was, but that didn't mean that she would appreciate me talking bad of her father. (It's that weird psychology where it's okay for _you_ to be mean about your brother or sister or whatever, but if _anyone_ _else_ tries to have an opinion, you immediately jump on the defensive.)

I offered Sonia a candy bar from my bag, feeling as though I was bribing her for information, but I brushed that aside as I figured that I might as well find out from her how well Zucco was taking the loss of his precious Porsche. "So, what's the burning car on your lawn about?"

Sonia paused in her munching and shivered a little despite the heat of the summer morning, probably recalling her father's shouted words from the night before. "Someone made it go boom. Daddy was really mad."

I pictured Zucco, mourning the expensive car and couldn't help but smile proudly to myself. It was a small retaliation to the biggest loss of my life, comparatively speaking, but it felt damn good anyway. My first real victory...

And I had so much more planned to come.

"Joe says that it was the Red Hood that did it," Sonia continued, apparently oblivious to the triumphant smile that had just slid off of my face. Self-consciously, I glanced down at my choice of clothes that day, grateful that I had forgone the signature red hoodie in favour of a blue tee. Not that wearing the described jumper actually gave me away, but the mention of my alter ego's name still made me nervous.

"The Red Hood?" I asked, again going with obfuscating stupidity to hide the fact that it was totally me.

Sonia nodded. "He's this bad man that keeps being mean to Joe and Benny. He tried to blowed them up and Benny says that the Hood's stalking them because they're Daddy's right hand men 'cause they look after me even though they says they're not my babysitters."

I stifled a laugh and ended up faking a coughing fit to cover it up. It had been ages since I had thought about Joe and Benny, the two goons that had chased me off that bridge all those months ago, but apparently they still thought about me. And wasn't that just extremely gratifying?

Sonia was looking at me in confusion, so I cleared my throat and moved on and hoped that she didn't pay my weird spaz attack much mind. "So, uh, your dad was really mad, huh?"

"Yeah," Sonia agreed sadly. She looked to the house again as if she thought someone might be listening, and then purposely turned away from it so that she was facing me. "He was yelling all night about it; about how he was gonna hunt the Red Hood down for attacking him and stuff."

(I didn't take the threat too seriously.)

"But then this morning, at breakfast, he was different," Sonia shrugged and took another bite of her candy, so that her next sentence was a muffled mess. "Ee eemed... abby."

I blinked as I translated. "Happy?"

Sonia swallowed. "Yeah."

" _Happy?"_ I repeated, just in case I had misunderstood. It just didn't compute that my strike against Zucco could have had such a short affect. The way that he had treated that car, with more care and affection than he had showed his own daughter, I had thought that it was a sting that the mob boss would feel for a while. But no, literally the next day he's moved on and forgotten. I was going to have to seriously step up my game.

"Why?" I choked out past my crushing disappointment.

"I guess his thing must have come," Sonia said offhandedly. I raised an eyebrow questioningly at her, needing more information. "He bought something at this uh, auction house thingy a few weeks ago but the postman got delayed and Daddy was mad 'cause he had to wait. That's why he's been so..." she trailed off, her hand absently rubbing at her arm as if it were hurt. And then she caught me looking and forced a smile. "Uh, anyway, he's happy again now, so it must've came."

I looked past Sonia at the house in the distance, noting the few extra guards milling about the property. Whatever this thing was, it was valuable to Zucco. And that meant that it would _definitely_ hurt if it was to go 'mysteriously' missing.

"So, um, Robin," Sonia said after a moment of silence as I began plotting my next attack against Zucco. I almost didn't respond to the name, having forgotten that it was the one that I had randomly given her. "I was wondering if maybes you'd like to, um...er..."

I furrowed my brow as I watched her struggle to find the right words, not having a clue where Sonia was going with this. My thoughts were more occupied on how I was going to break into her house and figure out exactly what this thing was that I had to steal. Maybe it would still be in the box that it came in if it was big – and if that was the case, I'd be better of destroying it than trying to escape with it (maybe I could burn it... pyromania was fast becoming my signature...) If it was small though-

"My school has half days on Fridays that I hasn't told Joe and Benny about so thats I can have some time to myself and I was thinking that maybes we could hang out together or something," Sonia said in one rushed breath, half of it coming out nonsensical.

I dragged my eyes away from the house and onto Sonia, who was staring at me with equal parts fear and hope. We were kids; she wasn't asking me out on a date or anything, but I understood her nerves regardless. I was probably the closest thing to a friend that she had had in a really long time and she was afraid of losing that.

I could relate.

But at the same time, I didn't want to get too close. I was on a vendetta against her _dad_ after all, and in a way, I was _using_ her to get to him. That kind of betrayal wasn't the most sturdy of foundations on which to build a friendship. It was mean and cruel to get her hopes up; to let her believe that I could be trusted when essentially I was working to destroy her father. I _should_ have just said no and walked away.

What I actually said was "What did you have in mind?"

Sonia beamed at me as guilt tore me up inside.

* * *

So, pizza and a movie was the plan.

And I had three days of guilt ridden torment to struggle through until then.

It made me feel physically sick as I internally warred with myself over the massive hole that I had just dug, knowing that there was absolutely no way that this whole thing was ever going to end well. Sonia was going to get hurt, caught in the crossfire of my battle with Zucco, and that just wasn't fair on her.

I felt so bad about it that I couldn't bring myself to go back to the house; not even to scout it out for my next planned heist. I was terrified that I was going to run into Sonia (yes, I was afraid of an eight year old girl. Move on). I was scared that she was going to realise the truth and then she'd tell her father, or even _worse_ , she _wouldn't_ tell him and then I'd be responsible for her betraying him and that was just so not okay at all and _when the hell did things get so complicated?_

Heaving a sigh to try and get rid of the thoughts that were getting me nowhere, I looked up at the sky. I was sitting on a rooftop (because even before hanging with Bats I knew that there was nothing like brooding on a gargoyle) wearing my hoodie despite the heat and ready for action. Yes, I was trying the whole patrol thing again, if only to distract from the whole Sonia thing that I was absolutely not allowed to think about.

Seeing as I had been sitting on the same rooftop for nearly an hour, I wasn't really getting very far.

My fails at patrolling had progressed from not finding any crime, to not even looking for any to stop. I was beginning to doubt my vigilante lifestyle choice.

Part of me wanted to ask Batman for a few pointers, (which would have been a really interesting conversation, if short) but that would have required Bats to actually be present. But I hadn't seen him, or Bruce, since I had been taken back to Bristol a few weeks before. Which, looking back, was really weird. Considering that I was doing potentially very dangerous things, I would have thought that Bats would have swooped in and stopped me by now; or was, at the very least, keeping an eye on me.

(Because that's how Bats show affection. Stalking = caring.)

But then the bat signal appeared against the smoggy sky and I figured my night was about to get more interesting than wondering where the Batman was. I had every intention of heading towards the GCPD to find out what was happening (eavesdropping from a distance of course – Jim would recognise me in an instant) when I heard a crash from an alley below.

Peeking over the parapet, I found myself witnessing a classic mugging turned violent. The victim was an older man wearing a suit just a shade too posh for the Eastern Quarter, wielding his briefcase defensively against his attacker. For a moment, I thought that I wasn't actually needed, but then I saw the knife in the mugger's hand, and I decided to act. Without a second thought, I vaulted over the edge and landed maybe a metre behind the mugger.

"HEY!" I shouted, because quipping in English is harder than you'd think. It had the desired effect though as the mugger whirled around to face me, and then froze.

We stared at each other for what felt like ages as the recognition set in. He was minus the wool hat and raincoat that he had been wearing that night, but I'd remember him anywhere. It was the same guy that had attacked that woman months ago near the Chinese restaurant. The same guy that had proceeded to kick my ass until I had stabbed him in the foot with his own knife. The same knife that he currently held threateningly in his hand. " _You."_

A small part of me really wanted to run away right then. Even all this time later, my ribs twinged and my face throbbed with phantom pain, reminding me that this guy was dangerous, and I was _just a kid._ But then I remembered Selina's training and advice and the ninjas in Robinson Park. Admittedly, the latter hadn't worked out so well, but that was a fight against like, a hundred assassins, and this was _just one guy._

I could take him.

" _Brat."_ the mugger spat.

Now that was just hurtful.

The trick to winning, or indeed _surviving_ , a knife fight, is to control the knife hand. So the first thing that I did was grab the man's wrist before he could follow through on his plan to gut me. Being as small and light as I was though, this wasn't necessarily my best idea. Still latched onto his arm like a limpet, I ended up airborne and flailing as he yanked his arm up in an attempt to shake me off. I figured then that this was the mistake that was going to get me killed – my hasty first move thwarted seconds into a fight I probably shouldn't have started.

But then I heard Selina in my head, her hints and tips reminding me that being airborne was an _advantage._

The man slammed me back against the wall, trying to shake my grip so that he could get his hand free and stab me already. But I held on tight, even adding my other hand to the hold, so I could haul my own weight up and into a kick. The soles of my sneakers smacked into the mugger's chest, but it only earned me a punch to the jaw in retaliation. So I kicked out again and again, trying to block his hits with my knees as I levered myself into a better position.

Bruised, but unable to really feel it through the adrenaline, I finally got enough leverage push myself into a flip. Using the mugger's own stance, I boosted myself up and over his head, still clinging to his wrist; effectively rotating his whole arm in a way that it is very much not meant to go. The man cried out in pain as the pop of his shoulder dislocating echoed down the alley, almost making me wince sympathetically.

We ended up sprawled on the concrete as the momentum bought us both crashing to the deck, but I rolled back up and onto my feet in an instant, ready for a likely violent response. But the mugger stayed curled on the concrete, whimpering as he clung to his wounded shoulder. I picked the knife up to get it out of his reach and then paused, struggling to get my breathing back under control as the danger high left me and the shakes inevitably started.

"Oh my god..." someone muttered, and it was then that I realised that the victim was still standing there, having witnessed the whole thing. He was staring at me like I was some kind of celebrity and I was immensely glad that _somehow_ , miraculously, my hood had managed to stay up throughout the fight. I kept my face hidden as I slipped off my backpack and found some zip-ties that I had stolen from a hardware store, and proceeded to restrain the mugger as best I could given the weird angle of his arm. "It's really you... the Red Hood..."

I guessed that I had a fan. And that my rep had spread further than I thought.

"But you're... you're just a kid..." the victim continued in disbelief.

I rolled my eyes beneath my hood and turned my back. I didn't quite go for the gravelly voice thing that Bats does, but I did try and make my accent as American sounding as I could. "Call the cops."

And then I tried to pull off the vanishing act. I wasn't quite successful as the guy didn't take as long as I had hoped to find and dial his phone, but by the time he looked up I had almost scaled my way all the way back up to the roof that I had jumped from. But I did just manage to catch his muttered 'thank you' as I performed the final flip and landed back on the parapet.

I was grinning like a loon for the next twenty minutes, ignorant of the bruises that I had earned as I leapt across rooftops in celebration of my first actual successful take down as the Red Hood. It just felt so good, knowing that I actually could pull this off. It felt _right._

And then I came crashing back down to earth, somewhat literally.

While leaping across an alley, midway between buildings, a huge bright white flash flooded the city. Temporarily blinded, I finished the jump on instinct, hoping that I had judged the gap correctly. My feet hit the roof just as the roar of an explosion caught up with the dimming flash; the rumble of the aftershock tripping my landing and sending me ungracefully into a faceplant with the asphalt.

Riding out the last of whatever the hell that was, I shoved myself onto my hands and knees and blinked the dancing colours from my vision. I half expected the city to have been obliterated considering the force of the explosion, but when I climbed to my feet and looked around, the buildings were still standing. The shrill scream of sirens broke the stunned silence of the rocked city as the emergency services responded; the bat signal still going strong against the clouds overhead.

I started running towards where the light had come from, still hopping rooftops until the buildings morphed into warehouses the closer that I got to the docks. I skidded to a stop on the corrugated metal as I finally saw what the frick was going on.

Rising out of the water was this huge creature that looked as if it were made of ice; glowing like starlight as the dirty water of Gotham Harbour cascaded off of it. Every movement it made sent mini tsunamis thundering against the docks, obliterating everything in their path. Smaller explosions than the one that had shaken the city lit up the warren of warehouses as the thing continued its attack.

My little high from my minute success in the alleyway faded as I realised that there was absolutely nothing that I could do to stop the creature advancing on the docks. I didn't know the first thing to do. Should I try to help anyway? Was that the heroic thing to do?

And then I heard the hum of the batwing's engines and instantly felt relieved. I looked up in the sky to see the outline of the stealth jet as it approached the creature and fired something most-likely non-lethal at it. Seconds later, a blur of red and blue came soaring across the surface of the harbour and barrelled into the creature's legs, bringing it to its knees. The blur came to a stop and hovered above the creature, the hard to miss red cape billowing in the breeze.

_Superman._

My grin was back as I watched the two giants drive the creature away from the city.

* * *

It was all over the papers the next day. ' _Superman Spotted in Gotham'. 'Mysterious Batman Actually Real'. 'Friends in Tights?'_ Oh, and someone had actually reported about the creature as well; but it was more of a byline to the real story.

The first superhero team-up ever.

_How totally awesome is that?_

Watching Bats and Uncle Clark go at the creature reminded me that I was a part of their world. Sure, I was nowhere near their level; but maybe if I could become fast enough and strong enough, then one day I might face an alien of my own without knowing that I was way out of my depth.

It was something to aim for anyway. A massive step-up from my wannabe vigilante status for sure. But if I ever wanted to make it to the Big Leagues, I was going to have to get past my little moral dilemma. It was time to suck it up and stop avoiding Sonia – I had to figure what this mysterious thing was that had turned Zucco's frown upside down and _take_ _it_ from him.

(Funny how my plan to be a hero was to essentially be a thief, huh?)

So that night I headed straight for Robinson Park. I was running tactics through my head based on what I had scouted before; figured that I'd at least get in the house and take a look around, and if I ran into Sonia... well... I'd deal with that later.

But then I nearly got shot.

Halfway through sticking a landing between rooftops, a green blur zipped through the air, practically parting my hair as it passed less than an inch above my head. Stunned, I tripped and ended up ungracefully sprawled on the ground, trying to understand what the frick had just happened. I clambered up into a crouch, keeping low just in case whoever was attacking decided to take a second shot. And that was when I saw the green fletching of the arrow embedded into the wall, right where my head had been.

My first thought was: _who the hell still uses arrows?_ Followed by the slightly more pertinent question of _why were they shooting at me?_ Cautiously, I looked around to try and find the shooter, but there was no one to see. It wasn't until I crept to the edge of the parapet and looked down at the building below that I finally spotted my assailant.

Artemis Crock. She was about eleven years old and dressed in ratty jeans and a tee, her distinctive blonde hair pulled back into an untidy ponytail. On her back she wore a quiver now only half full of arrows as she randomly shot them off with a compound bow almost as tall as she was.

Considering that she had just shot at me (though how intentional that was I _still_ don't know) I didn't know whether she was a good guy or a bad guy, so I tugged up my hood and decided to find out. Performing a pretty impressive flip, I landed on her roof and folded my arms across my chest, posturing as if I had some sort of authority over random archers shooting things in the middle of the night.

I was hoping to say something official sounding; but all that came out was an indignant: "You almost shot me!"

"I missed?" Artemis asked sarcastically, before lowering her bow from the billboard that she was aiming at and turning to look at me. Instantly the eyebrow was raised as she took one look at me in my hoodie and scoffed. "And who are you meant to be?"

My illusion of confidence shattered. Artemis made me nervous with her hard glare and offensive stance like at any moment she was gonna kick my ass. She was taller than me (what else is new?) and, you know, _armed_ , and I was beginning to think that confronting her was a really bad idea. "Uh, the, uh, Red H-hood," I stuttered, all manly like.

Artemis gave a sardonic laugh. "Really? Who called you that?"

That was a good question actually. "I d-don't know." I still don't, thinking about it.

Artemis rolled her eyes and went back to shooting the billboard; hitting the giant-sized picture of the city mayor right in the nose. It was a damn impressive shot, given the distance and wind speed, but I wasn't about to tell her that. "You should stop that. You might hurt someone."

"I know how to use a bow, Red," she huffed as she notched another arrow. And then suddenly she whirled around and let the bolt fly right at me. I barely had time to flinch before it brushed my ear and thudded into the building behind me. Artemis laughed at my surprised expression, a genuine giggle as opposed to the little scoffs that she had given before. "I didn't hit _you_ , did I? I'm not gonna hurt anyone. I'm not a bad..." She cut herself off and turned back to peppering the mayor's face with arrows.

Curious, I took a few steps closer; careful to keep the city lights behind me so that my face remained in shadow, and watched her. Whatever she had been about to say had made her tense, throwing her aim off slightly as barely contained anger dictated her movements. She was telling the truth, she really did know how to use a bow; there wasn't a chance of her hurting anyone, accidentally or otherwise. I could have just walked away and continued on to Robinson Park and everything still would have been okay.

But I couldn't. "What did the mayor ever do to you?" I asked, gesturing at the thoroughly destroyed billboard.

Artemis lowered her bow and glanced over her shoulder at me. "Nothing."

"Then why are y-"

"Because I need to blow off some steam alright!?" she snapped defensively. "Cripes, what's with all the questions? Are you like the anti-archer Gestapo or something?"

I backed up slightly, wondering where the outburst had come from. Artemis has always been a powder keg; her emotions close to the surface despite her efforts to mask them, ready to go off at the slightest spark. Wary of her temper (what with her having shot at me _twice_ in the past five minutes) I decided to stop pushing the issue. I ended up sitting cross legged on a roof vent as I waited her out. I don't know why I felt so invested in this girl – I didn't even know her name at this point – but it just seemed wrong to leave when she was clearly upset.

After maybe ten minutes, and half the Gotham skyline now sporting the entirety of her quiver, Artemis finally stopped and sighed heavily. And then she looked at me as if only just realising that I was still there. I guess that no one had ever stuck around before, because she hesitated as if she didn't know what to do with my presence. She stared down at the asphalt as she muttered "Sorry. I'm just having a really bad day."

I'd had plenty of those since the Fall, so I just nodded in understanding.

Artemis stood in silence a bit longer, and then studied me for a minute, as if judging how much she should say. And then she sighed again, and gazed into the distance as she spoke. "My, my sister just left. I thought that... that she was supposed to protect me, or whatever, but I guess... I guess I should've known. Everyone leaves."

She said that last bit with so much pain and resignation that I had the overwhelming urge to go over and hug her. But that probably ended would have with me getting a black eye, so I stayed put. Private people, like Arty, they're oddly more comfortable confessing to strangers than to people that they know, so I stayed the quiet observer and let her vent.

"My mom's in prison," Artemis admitted, still not looking at me, as if I wasn't even there. "She got caught on a job that she was working with my dad; but then she got hurt so he left her behind." She shrugged like this was perfectly normal. "That's my family. They're all bad guys – even my sister. It's all I've ever known. So I guess, maybe I _am_ a bad guy too."

"No," I said a bit too forcefully, making Artemis blink owlishly at me. And then the openly surprised look was replaced with a hard glare as the walls around her emotions came slamming back down. "You're not."

"What would you know?" Artemis scoffed.

"Nothing, probably," I shrugged. "But I don't think that you're bad person, and just because your family is doesn't mean you have to be. My Dad always says that you choose who you want to be, and if you choose to be bad then you have no one to blame but yourself."

Artemis rolled her eyes. "Is that a fact?"

"Yes."

We stared each other down for a few minutes; me still perched on the vent and her still looking threatening even with an empty quiver. After a while, her features softened slightly as she offered me the slightest of half-smiles. "Then I guess I better go choose, huh Red?"

I grinned at her from beneath my hood as she took her leave, performing a flip of her own off the edge of the roof.

I still didn't know her name.

* * *

It was practically dawn by the time that I finally made it to Robinson Park – not a chance of me pulling off anything even resembling a heist. I don't quite know why I even bothered going. Maybe it was just to prove to myself that I could, despite the whole issue with Sonia or something. I haven't a clue. But I did, and I ended up standing across the street outside the park just as the street lights began to shut off.

The house was silent and still, not a flicker of movement, even from the guards dotted around the front. The guy on the front porch was slouched on the swing seat and snoring loudly, competing with the morning chorus of the birds. The two men stationed in the SUV parked out front were asleep too, one slumped over the steering wheel and the other drooling on the passenger window.

And then I saw a hand peeking out from behind a parked car, clearly belonging to another guard lying unconscious on the pavement. My heart quickened as I realised that something was terribly wrong; my first thought being that _Sonia was in trouble._

"Easy, kitten," a voice muttered, just as a hand settled on my shoulder to stop me bolting towards the house. I glanced back to find Selina smiling at me, her other hand holding up some weird aerosol can. "They're just asleep."

"I-uh... what happened?" I asked, my brain not quite able to connect the dots as I struggled to reign in the panic that had hit me. Selina chuckled to herself as she knelt down beside me, her hand still on my shoulder, though now it was more to reassure than to restrain.

"Well... I got word that a certain Mr Zucco made a recent acquisition at Grange Auction House, and I just had to take a look," Selina explained playfully as she switched out the aerosol can for a small velvet bag. She took my hand and splayed it palm up, and then emptied out the gaudiest watch that I have ever seen into my fingers. Selina grinned at my wide-eyed expression. "Zucco's been waiting _weeks_ for this – he couldn't get the insurance. I waited a few days, figured you'd try and steal it, but when you didn't show, I couldn't just let him _keep_ it."

I blinked as the rising sun glinted off of the ridiculous number of precious stones set into the watch, forcing me to put it away before I was blinded. I handed the velvet bag back to Selina. "For me?" she asked, genuinely surprised.

"You stole it," I shrugged.

"Who says there's no honour among thieves, eh, kitten?" Selina smiled as she pocketed the watch. Across the street, the guards were beginning to wake up from whatever it was that she had given them, so Selina guided me into the park and perched on the trunk of a fallen tree. "So, I hear a mansion in Coventry has some new tenants. Oh, and that Porsche that exploded... how unfortunate."

I grinned smugly as I scuffed the grass with my sneakers. "You heard about that?"

"Of course, kitten," Selina nodded. "I hear about a lot of things. Like how you've met someone new recently... someone who happens to be _directly_ _related_ to the guy that you're trying to take down."

"Sonia," I muttered. "She's not like him."

Selina hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe not. But you still need to be careful, kitten. This thing is personal enough for you – don't make it any more complicated."

The voices of the guards began to leak through the hedge as they realised that they had all been asleep on the job, making me look nervously towards the house. "Um... shouldn't we get out of here?"

"We could do," Selina agreed, before smiling wickedly. "But why come for a show and miss the fireworks?"

She gestured at the oak tree beside us which I quickly scaled so that I could get a good view over the hedge. The number of guards outside the house had thinned to the one standing nervously on the porch, presumably while the others went inside to check if anything had happened.

It didn't take long for the theft to be discovered.

Zucco's wail of disappointment could be heard for _miles._


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Friday came about faster than I expected.

Before I knew it I was standing outside of the cinema on Moench Row, mentally running through all of the excuses that I could come up with for not being there. I had maybe a couple of minutes before Sonia showed up, and the temptation to just run before she got there was almost irresistible. But that was just mean (meaner than using her to get to her dad, though...? Well, that was debatable...) so I stood there and waited, praying that this wasn't going to go as badly wrong as I feared.

"Hey!" Sonia greeted brightly as she sprinted down the road towards me, cementing my ultimate doom. Her face was flushed as she staggered to a stop, grabbing my arm for support as she struggled to catch her breath. And then without another word she was dragging me inside; the coolness of the air conditioning making the building feel like an icebox compared to the heat outside. "Come on! We're gonna miss the two-thirty showing!"

The two-thirty showing of what, I still didn't know, and the fact that Sonia darted straight past the box office didn't help to solve the mystery either. She paused briefly to check the screens displaying the show times, and then she was barrelling past the slow moving queue waiting to get their tickets checked, still pulling me along like an over-sized rag doll. She didn't even stop at the barrier; instead diving straight through, the usher-person barely paying us crazy kids any notice. It was then that I realised that Sonia was smuggling us into the cinema without paying and, judging by her fearlessness, this wasn't the first time that she had done it either.

This girl was sneakier than I was!

With a mischievous giggle, Sonia led us through a set of double doors and into Screen Four, the pre-movie trailers just wrapping up as we finally stopped running at the top of the stairs.

I had never been to a movie theatre before.

Considering how quickly Haly's would roll into town, put on a few shows and then move on, there wasn't really time for cinema visits or whatever. My experience of the movies had been purely through the old VHS in the trailer. So standing there in the massive dark room with the huge screen and the almost deafening speakers, I was a little overwhelmed, and instantly on edge.

I didn't like it.

In the dark, I don't think that Sonia could see my absolutely terrified expression, because she grinned excitedly at me and tugged me towards a couple of free seats about halfway down on the aisle. The moment that my butt hit the seat I tensed up and couldn't relax for the life of me. Even as the film started, the title card finally revealing Sonia's movie of choice to be _Happy Feet,_ I just couldn't switch off and watch.

And then the singing started. And then there were _penguins_ singing.

I was seconds away from bolting.

If it wasn't for Sonia choosing that exact moment to lean over and rest her head on my shoulder, I probably would have run, but then she whispered in my ear over the opening song "I _love_ this movie." And it was decided. I had to stay put.

I ended up clinging to the armrests like I was on a rollercoaster rather than in a movie theatre. The room was only maybe half full, the bright light of the screen casting strange flickering shadows over everyone. Every loud thump or boom through the speakers had me jumping like it was a horror movie, making Sonia giggle quietly where she was still propped up against me. I couldn't focus on the film (not that I overly wanted too); my unsettled nerves unable to stop studying those around me as if I were expecting someone to jump out of the shadows.

And this was _before_ years of Bats' paranoia training. You should see me in a cinema now – it's hilarious, apparently. (First date with Babs... don't ask...)

But anyway, being paranoid actually paid off that day, because as I was nervously watching the audience I spotted a couple of other people as uninterested in the film as I was; and these guys definitely did not fit in.

There was this one guy down on the centre aisle a few rows back from the front; bulky in build and sitting by himself (clearly not there for a kids film). He kept looking around at the other patrons like I was, as if confirming that he was not alone. I followed his line of sight, twisting in my seat to spot another similarly out of place guy sitting near the back. I counted at least two more, this pair sitting a few rows in front and to the left of me and Sonia; straight-backed like security guards on either side of a seemingly empty seat.

There was something weird going on, that much was obvious, but I didn't really panic until the guy at the front shifted, the movement revealing what was clearly a _damn_ _big_ _gun_ propped against his leg.

I jumped as Sonia laughed along with most of the audience at some joke on the screen, reminding me of the number of civilians trapped with the guys with guns. I had to do something.

Or at least, the Red Hood did.

"Uh, I need the bathroom," I muttered to Sonia, who with a nod accepted the awful excuse and then extricated herself from the half-hug that she had initiated. Once free, I grabbed up my backpack from the floor and hurried as casually as I could back up the aisle towards the door, past the guy keeping watch near the top of the steps. He glanced at me as I passed, but like most adults, he didn't pay a kid much mind.

Once he was facing forward again, I pushed at the double doors to make it sound as if I had left, and then quickly dived behind the back row, effectively vanishing in the dark. Crouched in the small space, I ripped into my backpack and pulled out my hoodie, throwing it on over my tee and yanking up the hood.

(An infallible disguise, I know.)

Peeking around the edge of the end chair, I saw the guy that I had passed stand up and head for the door. I skittered back into my hiding place and watched as he rammed a bar through the handles as an improvised lock, and then took up position guarding it. Looking through the gaps in the seats, I spotted the other guy that was sitting at the front get up as well and go to block the fire exit.

"Hey! Down in front!" some random teen yelled as the last two of the armed men stood as well. It wasn't until they reached the end of the row and started walking down the steps towards the screen that I realised that the seat between them _had_ been occupied, but just by a really short person. A short person wearing coat tails and putting on a top hat like he thought that he was at the opera.

The infamous Penguin.

"What the-?" the same teen muttered, just audible over the movie as the three men made their way down the steps and stood before the screen like they were on centre stage.

"STOP THIS ABOMINATION!" Penguin squawked like his namesake, drawing everyone's attention onto him even as the movie continued to play behind him. There was silence aside from the music blaring through the speakers as the penguins on screen continued to sing and dance their way through a big number, though that just seemed to make the Penguin even madder than he clearly already was. "SHUT THIS THING OFF!"

I stayed where I was hidden, waiting – though I'm not really sure what for. The right moment to strike? (Maybe.) For someone to call the cops? (It was probably better than the terrible idea that I would come up with.) Or maybe I was kinda hoping that Batman would somehow know all about Penguin's plan to hijack the theatre and swoop in to save the day. (More likely)

I was scared – _terrified_ of screwing this up. These guys had guns. There were at least thirty people, most of them children younger than me, just waiting to get caught in the crossfire. I was a clueless kid; so far out of my depth that I couldn't even see the bottom of the pool, but it soon became clear that I was the _only one there._

Finally, someone managed to comply with the Penguin's demands to shut down the projector, the movie screen blinking out of life and the speakers falling inert. The theatre fell into almost complete darkness aside from the glow of the seat numbers and the sign above the emergency exit. There was never going to be a better chance to make a move.

It probably would have helped if I had an actual plan, but as it was I just decided to go for it. Before I could lose my nerve, I launched out of my hiding place and tackled the guard by the door. It was a bit like ramming a brick wall, almost knocking my shoulder out of alignment, but surprise and momentum were on my side. The guy tumbled with a muffled yelp drowned out by the Penguin's own monologue, and we both hit the deck behind the seats on the other side of the aisle.

He recovered quickly; striking out with a punch that I barely managed to dodge. But when he then tried to get his gun up to shoot me he was scuppered by the limited space as the bulky weapon got caught on the seat. Capitalising, I hit him with a punch of my own, smashing him in the nose hard enough to draw blood. I had to hit him two more times to finally knock him down, and even then he was more woozy then unconscious.

Peering over the back of the seats like a meerkat, I double-checked that my takedown had gone unnoticed. Penguin was still going strong in his protest against singing and dancing penguins (though surely there had to be more to this attack than a film criticism?!). The audience was still forcefully enraptured – the two guys flanking Penguin with guns daring them to be bored of the speech. Not a soul had reacted to the fight.

Not bad for a kid without a plan, eh?

But I still had to get everyone out somehow. Shrouded by darkness this far back, I got to my feet and crept up to the door. Glancing through the window, I made sure that the Penguin didn't have any back-up waiting on the other side, and then yanked out the bar being used to lock us in. Some of the staff must have been alerted by now, given that they had shut off the projector, which meant that the police had to have been called. It wouldn't be long before the GCPD showed up, turning this into a stretched out confrontation.

I had to at least thin the number of hostages before then.

"Pssst," I hissed, trying to grab the nearest person's attention without giving everything away. A woman turned at the sound, her little girl cuddled in her lap and her son pressed tightly to her side. I pointed at the door. "It's clear. Go – quietly!"

For a painful moment, the woman wouldn't move, scared of the consequences for her and her children if they were caught. But then a young couple across the aisle noticed our near-silent conversation and quickly took the opportunity; practically crawling from their seats and running in a crouch up and through the doors. The mom and her kids soon followed suit; and I realised then that I had just saved five people.

It wouldn't keep going that well though, I knew that. Even as caught up in himself as he was, Penguin would notice his deteriorating audience sooner or later, and that would be when the gunfire started. I needed to clear the other exit and then cause a distraction big enough to keep all eyes (and guns) trained on me-

– I was vaguely aware of how short lived my vigilante run could be.

Walking down the centre aisle was way too obvious, even for a guy in a bright red hoodie, so I ended up climbing over the seats; working my way down to the front one row at a time, pausing briefly at each one to urge a few more people to run. When I passed Sonia, I simply pointed at the way that she should go, keeping my hood completely obscuring my face just in case the near-darkness wasn't quite enough. She nodded and made to move, so I kept going, making a beeline for the emergency exit.

I was maybe three rows away from my target when it all went wrong.

"Hey!" the guard on Penguin's left shouted, cutting off his boss's tirade as he spotted a couple of teenage girls running up the stairs. Immediately all three remaining guns were aimed at the teens who seemed stuck between the fight or flight instinct. "Freeze! Or ya'll find ya'self full a new breathing holes!"

I couldn't think of anything else to do – other than to _not_ think, and just go ahead with dumb action.

With a yell that quickly drew the attention back to me, I took a kamikaze leap from the second row and thudded into the guard by the emergency exit.

"What the – _WAK!"_ Penguin tooted in surprise as automatic gunfire echoed around the theatre's fantastic acoustics. He ducked and covered between his two men as they let loose a barrage of lead that pipped the thin wall just above my head. Before they could learn to aim properly in the dark I finished taking out the guy that I had landed on. We ended up playing a game of tug of war over his gun for a few seconds before, by sheer fluke, I managed to swack him in the head with the butt of his own rifle.

Screams had filled the theatre as soon as the first bullet had flown; causing a mass flood of the remaining audience members to head for the main door. Some people had tripped and fallen in the stampede, getting trampled by the others in their desperation for escape.

I looked up from the guy that I had just knocked out just as one of Penguin's guards turned his gun on the retreating civilians. I caught a quick glance of Sonia tangled up in the chaos, and simply reacted. I grabbed the nearest thing that I could find (which happened to be the rifle) and flung it at the guard like it was the weirdest shaped discus ever. Physics and Lady Luck must have been smiling down on me that day because the rifle actually hit the guard and knocked his aim to the ceiling, making dust rain down on us.

"Kill him! Kill him! _Kill him!_ " Penguin ordered, still hiding behind their knees like the fearless man that he was.

I found myself facing down the barrels of two automatic weapons without a clue as to how I was going to get out of this. As their fingers tightened on the triggers I glanced left, relieved to see that most everyone had made it out, leaving at least the right hand side of the centre aisle completely clear. Decision made in the same millisecond that I had looked, I sprinted up to the front and leapt over the seats – landing hard on the popcorn strewn floor just as bullets shredded the upholstery.

Crawling along on my elbows as plastic and foam pelted down on me, I waited until the two guards had to stop to reload. The moment the empty click sounded, I jumped back on to my feet and then vaulted up so that I was standing on the back of the seats.

Now, this is probably the stupidest thing that I have ever done (okay, scratch the 'probably') but it's not on my Top 10 crazy plan list because, honestly, it _wasn't_ planned. We'll blame adrenaline and the near-death experience and my daredevil complex and the fact that I was a dumb nine-year-old, because what I did next was yell:

"Hey Penguin!"

The guards glanced up from reloading their guns. Penguin stood up and stepped forward as if to meet the challenge.

"Look!"

And then I jumped – a full on leap complete with somersault just because I could – both soles of my sneakers smacking into Penguin's face with the sickening crack of a broken nose.

" _HAPPY FEET!"_

Penguin let out of noise of protest as we both thudded to the carpet; though where he lay still and unconscious, I rolled into a crouch, blinking up at the two guards who were about to give me those extra breathing holes that they had promised.

"FREEZE! GCPD!"

I didn't see what happened next. I made a runner for the emergency exit right as the guards became far more occupied with ten or so cops that had just burst through the main door. The exit led into the alleyway down the side of the building, the place deserted aside from a few dumpsters and a rat that scurried away at the sound of the door slamming shut.

My hands were shaking so bad that I could barely undo the zipper of my hoodie as I stumbled towards the street. It was one thing that I had never really gotten used to back then – the aftermath. When the adrenaline is all gone and the cuts and bruises make themselves known and the reality of what you've just walked away from hits you like one last punch to the gut. I had been doing crazy stunts since before I could walk, you would have thought that riding out the high would be easy for me.

But there is a _huge_ difference between performing an act and getting _shot_ _at._

I had to catch my breath; to just take a moment to regain control of my racing heart and quaking limbs, so once I had struggled out of my hoodie and rammed it half-heartedly into my backpack, I slouched against the brick wall and just focused on breathing.

I was mostly running on autopilot when I staggered out of that alley maybe five minutes later. The street had been closed off and was full of cop cars; the flashing blue lights painfully bright even in the sunlight, and the _fwup-fwup-fwup_ of the helicopter hovering overhead deafening over the din of panicked voices. There were people everywhere – some of them the audience members giving their statements to the cops, but most of them were just rubberneckers that had appeared to gawk from the police barricade.

Ignoring all of them, I tried to find Sonia amongst the chaos, finally spotting her hovering near the doors, clearly worried and looking for me too.

"Robin!" she said with relief when she saw me, pulling me into a brief hug before leaning back and glaring daggers at me. "Where have you been?! I's been looking everywhere for you! There was these men with guns and- Where were you?!"

"I, uh," I stuttered, still a little out of it. My head was pounding with the mother of all headaches, and all of the noise and flashing lights was not helping. "Yeah, um, they uh... evacuated us when the guns went off. I tried to get back in and find you but they wouldn't let me."

Sonia nodded. "Okay, come on, let's get outta here before they call our parents or something," she suggested as she grabbed my hand and forcibly led me out and under the police tape until finally the chaos of Moench Row faded into the distance.

* * *

"...and then the Penguin started going on about the _mis-re-pre-sen-tation_ of penguins in movies," Sonia was saying, sounding out the long word carefully to make sure that she said it right. We were maybe five minutes away from her house by Robinson Park and I was finally starting to feel a bit more with it as Sonia gave me the play-by-play of what had happened in the theatre. "And I was really scared because of the guys with guns but then you'll never guess what!"

"What?" I asked automatically.

" _The Red Hood showed up!"_ Sonia exclaimed excitedly, doing a little dance and then turning so that she was walking backwards ahead of me. "It was _so_ _cool_! Joe and Benny always says that he's a bad guy but he's not! He totally saved us and you know what's even cooler?"

"What?" I said again, this time with a bit more interest.

Sonia paused for dramatic effect, though she looked closer to bursting that I did. "He was just a _kid_! Just like us!" Once again she twirled, this time so that she ended up walking next to me again. She started miming fight moves as she spoke; complete with sound effects. "He punched one guy right in the face like _POW!_ And then he was flipping about like _fwosh!_ and then he kicked one with a _HYAA!_ And it was just so totally _wicked_!"

I burst out laughing at her rendition, silently hoping that I wasn't quite as uncoordinated as she was. But then she said something that actually made me choke.

"He's a hero!"

" _What?"_ I repeated one last time because, surely, I must have misheard.

Sonia rolled her eyes at me. "I _said_ , he's a hero! Just like Batman and Superman. I thought you had to be a growed up to be a hero... but maybes anyone can be a good guy."

I was stunned into silence for the final street of our walk, but Sonia didn't seem to notice, as involved as she was in her Red Hood re-enactment. That validation right then confirmed that I really was doing the right thing; that I had made the right decision becoming what I had, and I don't think that I have ever really thanked Sonia enough for that.

We came to a stop at the bottom of her driveway, Sonia's excitement fading into a nervous smile as she realised it was time to say goodbye. "So, I uh, had fun," she shrugged. "Even with the Penguin and the shooting and whatnot."

I smiled. "Me too."

"So, maybes we could hang out again?" she suggested cautiously, scuffing her shoe against the sidewalk. "Like maybe Tuesday? At the treehouse?"

I looked away for a moment, wondering if this was really such a good idea. Sure, I had had fun, despite the hostage situation, but there was still that whole issue of the fact that I was trying to take down her father. Selina had warned me about letting things get too complicated – perhaps it was better just to jump ship now than to go down with it. "Look, Sonia, maybe..."

"SONIA!" A voice yelled, making us both jump. I looked up to see Tony Zucco standing on the porch actually looking mildly concerned. "Where have you been girl? Get here right now!"

Sonia made to obey; but seeing Zucco's face, almost as close as he had been that day, and hearing the tone that he used with his daughter even when he was possibly worried about her... it sparked something impulsive in me. I reached out and grabbed Sonia's hand before she could run off. "How about tomorrow? Meet me at the treehouse – don't tell your dad."

"Really?" she asked with a grin, to which I nodded. "Sure! See you tomorrow!"

I smiled as I watched her run up the driveway, the beginnings of a potentially cunning plan forming in my head.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

That night, I was figuring out the details of my plans for Saturday; my impulsive idea needing some _serious_ fleshing out if I was to stand a hope in hell's chance of pulling it off. There were cover stories to concoct, numbers to decide and timings to consider. And then there was the whole _slightly_ ambiguous morality behind it all and well... it was a lot. And in my brashness, I had only given myself _one_ _night_ to get it right.

Because there's nothing like a bit of pressure to get the grey matter working.

I've always been better at thinking and planning while either on the move or high up, so I figured that I might as well do both and go on patrol while I sorted out the details. (My idea of 'patrol' back then was still just running around rooftops with the vain hope of stumbling upon a crime that I could stop, so really, there was more plotting than actual vigilantism going on that night) but whatever. It's the thought that counts.

It was as I was 'patrolling' that night that I spotted something strange on the Gotham skyline, bringing my Parkour run across the terraces of Midtown to a tumbling halt. Crouching behind the apex of the sloped roof, I squinted at a slightly taller building two blocks down, double-checking that I had seen what I had thought I'd seen.

And I had.

Just visible over the parapet, was the unmistakable ears of Batman's cowl. It was the first time that I had seen him since the creature attack on the docks, and it had been even longer before that; so I couldn't help but be curious as to what he could possibly be doing, apparently just standing around on a random rooftop.

I had to get a closer look.

Vaulting over the apex I skidded down the roof tiles like Quasimodo, and then leapt right before I hit the gutter; relying on momentum to propel me over the thin street. I ultimately ended up falling shorter than I had aimed; catching the window sill on the second story rather than landing on the roof like I'd hoped. I was forced to scale the downpipe to get where I needed to go.

Residential houses are always harder to jump than the box like industrial units, so I was glad when the slants and slopes morphed into the flat roofs of Main Street. I hunkered down behind an air vent the moment that I landed on the building opposite to the one on which Batman was standing; cringing as I accidentally thudded into the metal and praying that the loud clang hadn't been noticed.

(Who was I kidding? I was trying to sneak up on _Batman!_ Of course I had to have been noticed.)

"No one has ever refused my challenge before," a female voice that definitely wasn't Batman declared, her tone an odd mix between affronted and curious. I peeked around the side of the vent, but all I could see was the back of Batman's head and shoulders. The woman must have been standing further back, invisible at the angle that I was crouched on the slightly lower building.

"There's a first time for everything," Batman replied, sounding uninterested.

Now I was well and truly curious. I didn't have a clue what they were talking about or who the woman was or what was going on – but I had to find out.

"Do you not understand what it is that I am offering?" The woman asked as I tried to figure out a way to get from my roof onto theirs without my arrival being totally obvious. I was just deciding that I would have to climb down and use the fire escape when the woman's voice took on a harder edge. "This is a contest of _honour._ To be able to prove yourself as superior – testing your skills by defeating those unworthy of holding titles of strength."

 _Who the frick was this woman?_ I wondered as I hurried down to street level and snuck across the road, not wanting to miss too much of the conversation. She was a grown up, I could tell that much by her voice, but she didn't sound very old. She spoke with an exotic accent and strange vocabulary, as if she had learned her English from badly dubbed kung-fu movies (not that I could talk, having learnt most of my English from TV...)

By the time that I had made it up the fire escape, the woman had apparently finished her pitch as it was Batman that was talking. "-seen the corpses of the 'unworthy' that you've left across Asia, Shiva. Those weren't _contests_. They were _murders."_

And that was when I got my first look at Lady Shiva, a woman that would have a _lot_ of influence over my later life. She wore entirely black form fitting clothes, accented with belts and sheaths holding a variety of weapons that I couldn't even try to name back when I was nine. A triangle of black cloth covered the bottom half of her face like a cowboy, revealing only her dark slanted eyes that glared at Batman in irritation.

"No," she denied adamantly. It was hard to tell her age, but I guessed that she was probably in her twenties, though she sounded younger. She almost came across as a teenager, determined that she was right and no one else could convince her otherwise. "I let them die with honour – slain by the sword of their better. An end that I would welcome, should you prove superior to me," she dared cockily.

I crept closer, climbing over the top of the ladder and then darting silently to hide down the side of the roof access door. Pressed against the brickwork, I found myself in the middle of the two adults, who stood on opposite sides of the roof like a stand off at high noon.

"I don't kill," Batman said firmly.

Shiva snorted a derisive laugh, like Batman had just told a hilarious joke. "Well, then this shall be a very short battle indeed if you have yet to overcome such a _weakness."_

"Leave Gotham tonight, or you shall feel just how that _'weakness'_ makes me stronger than you," Batman threatened darkly, his whole aura becoming ominous and imposing without him even having moved.

Shiva smiled coyly. "Is that a promise?"

" _Leave_ , Shiva," Batman reiterated, clearly growing tired of her games. His glare wasn't even levelled in my direction and yet _I_ could feel the almost overwhelming urge to obey and run away. I didn't know how Lady Shiva could possibly remain so calm and composed, pinned by such a hostile presence.

But she only stepped forward, smirking boldly. "Come now, legendary Dark Knight, you must be wondering if you could win, right? If you could beat me?" She cajoled as she took another step, like a predator testing its prey. Batman only stared back, utterly unfazed. As she spoke she slowly closed the distance between them, gradually getting closer to where I was hiding. "A one on one duel. Winner takes the glory, and gets to keep their life."

And then she paused, right in front of me, and grinned at Batman. "I'll even let the _child_ referee if you're afraid that I'll cheat."

 _That_ inspired movement from Batman. As I traipsed out of the shadows; knowing that it was pointless to keep hiding when they both knew that I was there, Batman sidestepped towards me. The manoeuvre forced Shiva to circle away from me in order to maintain the distance that she had set, and placed Batman purposely between her and me.

Shiva watched the ploy with a thoughtful expression, a glint of something dangerous in her eyes that made Batman straighten. "I'm warning you, Shiva. Leave."

For a moment, it was totally unclear as to what was going to happen next. For all my supposed skill of reading people, I could only catch the slight twitch of Shiva's left eye and the minute tightening of Batman's stance. I figured that this was it – the fight that was going to happen regardless. And I honestly couldn't say for certain who would win.

But then Shiva sighed, huffy like a kid who had just been told 'no' for the first time. "Fine," she spat. "Be a coward, Batman. But mark my words; you _will_ pay for this disrespect," she glared as darkly as the aptly named Dark Knight, and then her eyes slid over to me. "You will pay with the blood of those you protect."

(Yep, nothing foreboding about that...)

Shiva backed up, conceding defeat and retreating to the edge of the roof. Batman followed her every move warily, but I, very sensibly, had accepted that it was over, and chose that moment to step out of Batman's shadow and the protection that he had offered. I was curious.

(That whole 'curiosity killed the cat' thing? Very true.)

Shiva placed one foot on the parapet, but instead of stepping up like I had expected, she pushed off, adding force to her already frightening speed. I hadn't even blinked and she was _there_ , right in my personal space with a blade slicing through the edge of my hood, mere millimetres above my left eye.

And then I was on the ground, the wind completely knocked out off me and a black shape blocking the meagre starlight of the summer night. I didn't know what had happened until I finally managed to push myself upright and saw Batman and Shiva locked in battle. They exchanged blows so fast that I couldn't tell if they were hits, misses, dodges or feints. All I could do was watch.

By design, every move that Batman made pushed the two fighters closer to the precipice of the building; but Shiva was well trained and knew to be aware of her surroundings. She simply used the ledge that she was being pushed towards as a boost, launching herself up and onto Batman's shoulders. Spinning like a top, she performed an impressive takedown; Black Widow style, but it was as if Batman had been expecting the stunt. With a twist that I would have thought impossible in the bulky armour, he countered the move and threw Shiva –

– _over the edge._

Too busy scarpering forward to get a look, I didn't see Batman pull out his grapnel gun and fire; but I did hear the _snap_ of Shiva's wrist breaking as the line wrapped around her arm and pulled taut. She bit off her own scream of pain impressively quick, as if she couldn't allow herself to admit that broken bones _hurt._

"You should have just left," Batman told her bluntly.

"No! _NO!"_ Shiva shrieked in equal parts frustration and denial as she swung from her mangled limb. She looked at the drop still left below her and then up at Batman with wide eyes. "I was _not-!"_ she hissed, and then cut herself off. Her expression turned murderous as she glared up at us. _"_ You will pay for this Batman!

" _YOU WILL PAY!"_

She took a knife and cut the line, letting herself fall as her promise echoed between the buildings. There was no sound of her hitting the ground – it was as if the shadows themselves had swallowed her up. She simply vanished.

I continued staring into the abyss, trying to find her. **"** Who _was_ that?"

Batman grabbed me by the shoulder and hauled me back, giving me the once-over as he surveyed the damage. He touched the tear in my hood with a frown, and then pulled back. "A very dangerous person."

A succinct answer that would probably be enough for someone who wasn't nine years old and new to the world of heroes and villains. I felt as though I might burst from curiosity, and before I knew it, the questions were spilling from my lips. "Is she the lady that sent the ninjas in the park? Why? Why does she want to fight you? Why did you save her? Why did you let her go? She's a bad guy, right? So why-"

Batman glared me into silence, his patience clearly not infinite. "She has never harmed a civilian, only those that have agreed to fight her and are aware of her terms of engagement," he explained, and then looked to the edge where Shiva had fallen. "Without a contest she'll leave Gotham. And she'll take the damn ninjas with her."

We fell into silence for all of thirty seconds before I had another burning question. "So, are you friends with Superman?"

"No."

"But the papers are saying that you are," I retorted to Batman's adamant refusal. I have to admit, it was kind of funny watching his eyebrow twitch, noticeable even through the cowl, every time that I said 'Superman' (still is, actually), which is probably why I kept pushing the issue. " _And_ I saw Superman helping you with the big thing down at the docks."

The twitch again. "He was _not_ helping."

"Really?" I asked sceptically. "Because it sure looked like he was. You was just flying around in your plane thingy and Superman was doing all the punching... _huh._ So maybe you were helping _Supe-"_

"He showed up uninvited," Batman interrupted shortly, shooting me a glare as if daring me to continue this line of enquiry. "I didn't _need_ his help."

Winding Bruce up about Uncle Clark is always fun, but back then they definitely were not friends (Bruce will argue that they still aren't if you ask him) and I figured that I had probably pushed my luck enough for one night. "Sure," I agreed instead, though with a shrug that belied my sincerity. "So what was that thing anyway?"

"An Appellaxian," Batman answered, his tone softening maybe half a degree now that I had moved on from the subject of Superman. I gave him a confused look instead of trying to repeat the unpronounceable word myself. **"** An alien," he elaborated. "There are six more of them that need to be stopped."

"By you?"

Batman turned his back to me. "I work better alone."

I scoffed a laugh. "Against _six_ giant super-powered aliens?" I snorted incredulously, shaking my head in disbelief. I purposely stepped forward into Batman's line of sight and shot him a pointed look. "It is okay to ask for help you know."

Batman glanced at me appraisingly, and then turned his pensive stare onto Gotham. It was the early hours of the morning and still dark enough for the city lights to glow like fireflies. Laid out before us like that, it all looked so peaceful – but then again, everything always does from a distance.

The moment was broken when Batman looked down at me as if only just realising that I was still there. "What are you doing here?"

Now, I didn't know whether he meant 'here' as in on that particular rooftop watching over the city, or 'here' as in not at Bristol where he had left me, so I went for an answer somewhere between the two. "Uh, patrolling?"

"Patrolling." Batman repeated, turning the question into a statement with the bluntness of his tone. "This is _my_ city. I protect it. Not you."

The accusation in his voice instantly set me on the offensive, my temper sparking. "Well, maybe I wouldn't _have_ to patrol _your_ city if you weren't so busy trying to stop an alien invasion _solo_ or playing games with your ninja girlfriend!" I snapped, and then raised an eyebrow challengingly. "Did you even know that the Penguin held up a movie theatre today?"

Batman paused for a moment, almost grudgingly. "I heard that the Red Hood got everyone out before the GCPD got there," he admitted, the lenses of his cowl boring into me until finally, he nodded. "Good job."

I grinned smugly, experiencing the spectacular pride before the epic fall. Because then he added: "Don't do it again."

" _What?!"_

"Do you have _any_ _idea_ what could have happened – how _badly_ that could have ended?" Batman demanded, as always envisioning the worst case scenario. I wasn't an idiot; I knew that guns were bad and that one wrong move was going to end with someone getting killed – but that was _why_ I had acted. I had been careful. I had _done the right thing._ Or at least, I thought I had, right up until this conversation. "The police are trained to handle hostage situations, _you_ are _not._ You could have gotten yourself and everyone else in there _killed."_

I tried to defend my actions. "But I didn't, I-"

"But you could have!" Batman cut me off angrily. I flinched as he raised a gauntleted hand, but all he did was tug down my hood to emphasise his point. "You're just a _kid_ , Richard. You can't understand the consequences of your actions. You have to stop this... this ridiculousness before you do something that you can't take back."

" _Ridiculous...?"_ I scoffed, and then waved a hand. "Says the guy dressed up as a _bat!"_

Batman just looked at me, with the cold stare and imposing armour, daring me to say that again. "Go back to Bristol, Richard," he ordered, though he at least made an effort to make it sound like a suggestion. "Make friends, do well in school," he paused and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Forget about being this 'Red Hood' character."

I shrugged off his hand with a scowl. "Like _you_ just 'forgot' about your parents?"

Deathly silence.

It was a low blow, I knew, but it was true. Bruce had become the dark avenger to get justice for his parents and to help others similarly affected; and that was all that I was trying to do too. It wasn't like _he_ was a cop, trained for hostage situations, or a sanctioned enforcer arresting criminals; but just because he was an adult, apparently it was all okay for him. But not for me.

The hypocrisy of the whole conversation was overwhelming, and I just had to call him out on it... but perhaps I should have chosen a different target. He dipped his head as if to hide his expression as the words hit home; and when his gaze settled on me again, I could see the cracks in the mask.

"If I catch you playing hero again, I _will_ put an end to this."

With that promise he made his exit, leaving me alone on the rooftop just as the orange of dawn began to bleed into the sky. I clenched my hands into fists by my sides and shook my head.

"I'd like to see you try."


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

So, apparently, I hit my rebellious phase at age nine. Go figure.

Selina had said that I _shouldn't._ Bruce had said that I _couldn't._ And all that did was make me absolutely determined that I _would_.

I was wired like a kid on caffeine when Saturday finally rolled around the next morning. I had everything planned and ready, every contingency I could think of covered and prepped. All I needed to do now was pull it off.

Sonia was already waiting at the tree house when I got there at about eight, her feet kicking anxiously over the edge of the platform as she kept an eye out for me. The moment that I appeared by the back fence she leapt down and barrelled towards me; wrapping me in a hug for all of two seconds before jumping back as if unsure that she should have done that. "Uh, hi," she greeted shyly.

"Hey," I grinned in response, setting her at ease, and then glanced at the house in the distance. "You sure your dad doesn't know about this?"

"Nope," Sonia shook her head. "I snuck out before breakfast so that I wouldn't have to make up a story, but I stole snacks first so I wouldn't get hungry and then I stayed hidden. Daddy won't notice I'm gone for a while, but when he does..." she trailed off hesitantly. "He's gonna be _so_ mad."

"Don't worry about that," I told her; though to be honest it made me feel massively guilty. I _knew_ that Zucco had a temper, and I at the very least suspected that Sonia was the target that he took it out on... This crazy idea that I had... it could all go so _very, very_ wrong, and it would be Sonia that bore the brunt of it. But, if I got it _right,_ well... it would be a good day all round. I smiled at her reassuringly, offering her my hand. "Today's about having fun."

Sonia studied me for maybe half a second, before she smiled brightly and took my hand. Immediately, I felt the immense weight of pressure to not screw up. By agreeing to sneak out like this, to disobey her father like this, she had just put so much _trust_ in me. I wouldn't let her down.

Leading her through the hole in the fence, we stepped out onto the street that ran behind the house and headed for the nearest train station. Sonia followed along just like I had that day at the cinema, slightly apprehensive but also incredibly curious. She noted our route, looking around for clues as I led her down two more streets; the monolithic roof of Gotham Central looming up ahead. She threw me a sideways look. "Where are we _going?"_

"It's a surprise," I replied with a sly smile, tugging her hand to get her to move faster. "Come on, we'll miss the 8.30 train!"

"The 8.30 train to _where?!"_ Sonia asked in exasperation, unknowingly echoing my thoughts from the day before and making me laugh at the irony. She huffed a little at my response, but she still picked up the pace as excitement drowned out any remaining anxiety.

The moment that we crossed the threshold into Gotham Central, however, I had to pause to catch my bearings. I had only ever been in the station when it was just opened or just closing; meaning that the place was usually a big cavernous _empty_ space. But now it was the start of the weekend – and _full_ of people.

The noise was unbelievable. The chatter of hundreds of voices reverberated around the rafters and made it sound as if there were thousands more answering back. Everyone was moving; commuters in a rush and yacking on cellphones, gaggles of teens, parents trying to keep an eye on small children who refused to sit still. I had come to a grinding halt at the sight, panic beginning to seep in as the feeling of being lost and totally surrounded made me freeze up.

But this was apparently the wrong thing to do.

A knee connected with my back as some impatient person shoved me forward, an irritated "Move it, kid," not helping me to calm down in the slightest.

"Come on," I vaguely heard Sonia mutter beside me, and then it was her turn to tug my hand as she led me to the side and out of the crush by the doors. It was still loud and stifling and overwhelming, but Sonia was looking at me in concern so I forced myself to try and focus on her. "Are you okay, Robin?"

"Yeah," I breathed, and then chuffed an unconvincing laugh. "Just, uh... _lots_ of people..."

Sonia furrowed her brow, apparently not sharing my fear of crowds but nodding reassuringly regardless. "That's okay," she said quietly, the fact that she was standing in my personal space the only reason that I had heard her over the cacophony around us. "We'll go somewhere else..."

 _Wait, what?_ My panicked brain sparked, trying to reboot _No – the plan!_

"No!" I yelped out loud, sharp enough to make Sonia blink at me in surprise. "I mean, uh... no, it's okay. I'm fine."

Sonia just looked at me, probably noting my wide eyes and too quick breaths and the fact that I was still definitely very much on the verge of a panic attack. "You sures about that?"

"U-huh," I nodded, grabbing her hand again and steeling myself. "Come on, we're g-gonna miss the train."

Which I definitely could _not_ allow. There was no way that I could spend a second longer in that station than I absolutely had to. Sonia seemed to understand this though as she kept pace with me as I practically ran through the crowd, dodging around kneecaps and swerving around pushchairs at a speed that probably would have been impressive, if I wasn't doing it purely out of self preservation.

The herd of people choked up at the turnstiles as they were forced to go single file, causing me to pause once again as I considered our options. Staff members in high vis hovered at either end of the row of barriers, their attention split between watching the passengers and chatting about their Friday nights. In fact, everyone around us seemed more interest in their own worlds than us two kids, so I thought _to hell with it_ , and glanced at Sonia. "Trust me?"

She nodded, which made me feel equal parts awesome and horrible, and then we ran. Picking the centre turnstile as it was the furthest from the security, I sprinted between the two queues, ignoring the occasional annoyed tut from the people we accidentally bumped into. Timing was on our side as someone had just slipped through the barrier as we approached, creating a gap just big enough or the two of us to fit. We let go of each other's hands at the last moment; me needing both to perform a vault (and a flip... yeah, I know, _show-off...)_ over the top as Sonia skidded underneath.

Someone shouted something about irresponsible parenting as we darted away, but other than that our little stunt went by completely unnoticed.

Sonia was laughing at the thrill as we kept running down the platform, her hand slipping back into mine as I led us to the right train. We just about got through the doors before they slammed shut, the warning whistle sounding from seemingly far away a few moments before the train chugged into action.

We had managed to find a mostly empty car, which was a _huge_ relief for me as the panic attack finally began to subside, only leaving my hands still shaking slightly as Sonia led us towards a couple of free seats. She was still giddy as she knelt on her seat by the window, looking out of the glass excitedly at the city that started to blur as the train picked up speed.

I slouched in my own seat, head thudding back against the cushion as I closed my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

_Phase One: Complete._

"So where _are_ we going?" Sonia asked, a little petulantly. She prodded my side when I didn't immediately respond, pouting at me like a toddler. " _Tell_ me, _pleeeeeeeeeeezzzeee!"_

I laughed at her expression, and shook my head. "I _told_ you, it's a _suprise_ , Son."

"But I want to _knooooww,"_ she insisted. She looked out of the window again, pointing at something on the horizon. "That's the Trigate Bridge, so I knows we heading north," she determined, chewing her lip thoughtfully. "Are we going to the zoo?"

I shook my head. "Guess again."

"Are we going to... the dinosaur museum?" she asked after a moment of thought, to which she got another 'no'. "Pizza Planet? The Mall? The arcade?"

I smiled and kept shaking my head at every suggestion, relaxing in my seat as Sonia got worked up every time that we stopped at a station. It was only a thirty minute train ride, but it was right to the end of the line, confusing Sonia greatly as we passed every single one of the places that she had suggested.

But when the realisation finally dawned on her as to our destination, I swear that I have never seen a bigger smile with sadder eyes. I looked at Sonia in confusion at the contradictory expression, beginning to doubt my choice. "Are you okay? I asked.

Sonia nodded, still smiling and eyes still watering as the train pulled into the station. "Yeah, I'm good. This... this is good."

Her voice was weird, but before I could question her further, she was dragging me out of my seat and leading us to the doors just as the tone sounded and they hissed open. She knew the way, which was a damn good thing considering that I had never been to that part of the city before and was secretly already lost, so I let her drag me along.

We walked down the street from the station, following most of the other people that had been on the train, heading for the brightly lit arch that divided the city from the mysterious world of Amusement Mile.

It was like coming home, in a weird way. I mean, I was raised in a circus, not a funfair, and those are two very different things, but they still had that similar feel about them. The bright colours, the laughter, the exuberant voices – I hadn't realised just how much Amusement Mile would remind me of Haly's. It even smelled the same; greasy foods and engine oil and popcorn and that musty underlying scent that you just couldn't find out in the real world.

It was noisier than Haly's though; the whirs and clicks and groans of the rides a constant rhythm beneath the excited screams and whoops of joy. There were people, everywhere, even this early in the day, but the crush was _different_ , somehow. I didn't feel myself panicking like I had in the train station; which makes absolutely no sense, I know, but I was just grateful that I wasn't going to have to find a place to duck and cover every time that someone got too close.

I looked to Sonia, who was grinning beside me, though still with that odd look in her eyes. I imagined that I probably looked the same though, bittersweet thoughts of home tingeing my own eyes with sadness. But I refused to dwell. Dwelling might lead me to recalling other memories that I would rather not relive – and I was clamping down on _those_ thoughts before they had time to grow roots.

"Come on," I said as brightly as possible, Sonia nodding along eagerly as we both tried to ignore our shadows. Joining the herd moving towards the ticket booths, I noticed the signs clearly displayed above every barrier. The ticket prices didn't bother me (I had picked a couple of wallets that morning to make sure that I had enough cash) but the fact that children under that age of twelve had to be accompanied by an adult... that _did_ bother me. I cursed in Russian.

Sonia followed my line of sight, her own frown forming as she realised the problem too. I was just studying her, wondering if I could find a way for us to pass as twelve years olds, when she nodded to herself like she was coming to a sort of agreement.

"Play along," was the only warning that I got before we were rushing off again, past the queues and up to a booth. And then Sonia simply walked up to the barrier and made to duck beneath it with the confident air of someone who was absolutely not doing anything at all wrong.

"And where'd you think you're going?" a female voice asked, the owner of it being the teenage attendant who was leaning out of the box to look down at us with a crooked eyebrow.

Sonia looked up at her innocently, and then pointed at the rides and stalls a few tantalising yards away. "Into the park?"

"And have you got your tickets?" the girl said in that baby tone adults reserve purely to talk to children. The people behind us in the queue were somewhere between fawning over the adorableness of us two kids desperate to get into the park and irritated that we had totally jumped in front of them. It created several very funny facial expressions, but I was busy watching as Sonia totally played up the fact that she was cute. She shook her shyly, making the girl in the booth tut lightly. "Then I'm afraid you can't go in, sweetie."

Sonia looked close to tears, and if it weren't for the fact that I knew that she was faking it, I would have fallen base over apex for it too. "B-but- our g-grandparents s-said that," she paused for a truly Oscar-worthy sniffle, "th-that we could g-go ahead..."

The girl in the booth squirmed uncomfortably, clearly not wanting to deal with a crying child. As instructed, I played along, putting my arm around Sonia's shoulders like a protective older brother or cousin or something, (we didn't exactly look related) my own eyes downcast as if I was gonna join in on the crocodile tears as well. "Oh, uh, well, um," the girl stammered, and then scanned the sea of expectant faces waiting in the queue. "Where are your grandparents, sweetie?"

Without hesitation, Sonia pointed at an elderly couple a few groups down the queue who were chatting obliviously with the family waiting behind them. The girl in the booth nodded. "Okay then," she agreed, lifting the barrier so that we could scarper off. "But don't go too far! You don't want to end up in Lost and Found!"

Sonia beamed brightly at the girl as we wandered away, even offering her a little wave, and then she was giggling proudly at her success. I was looking at her devious little face with awe, though really I shouldn't have been surprised that she could twist adults around her little finger. "I want to be an actress when I grows up," she said matter-of-factly by way of explanation.

Actually, she would become an architect, but I'm pretty sure that Hollywood would still take her in a heartbeat.

Surrounded by the bright chaos of the amusement park, we both stood there for a moment trying to pick just where to start. There was just so much going on that it was hard to take it all in; the sights, the sounds...it would make even the most quiet and reserved kid completely hyperactive, seemingly through osmosis. Even with my plan firmly set, I could still feel myself getting distracted; my short attention span flittering between all the rides and games like it was Christmas.

But I could never completely switch off. Living on the streets, training with Selina, giving the whole vigilante thing a whirl; I had already taught myself the basics of remaining constantly aware of my surroundings. It was why I couldn't focus in the cinema and probably had something to do with why crowds scared me so much... the downside of constant paranoia. But right then, it paid off. As Sonia continued gaping at the hundreds of things trying to catch our attention, I looked back over my shoulder.

"And your grandchildren, sir?" the teenage attendant was asking the elderly couple that Sonia had volunteered as our patsies. How I heard her over the noise around us I have no idea, but I was just glad for the warning. I squeezed Sonia's hand to get her attention, her eyes following mine as the elder gentleman shot the girl in the booth an affronted look.

"Excuse me?"

"Your grandchildren..." the girl tried again, and then she spotted us in the crowd, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. I glanced at Sonia, her smiled sweetly at me, and then ran like a convict escaping Shawshank. I almost struggled to keep up with her as the girl in the booth called out for security, her cries of "Gate jumpers!" mostly drowned out by the madness around us.

Amusement Mile is huge (or at least it felt that way – everything does when your about a metre tall) but in spite of that, the white shirted security guard still managed to tail us for a good five minutes before I yanked Sonia around a sharp corner and hid us behind the machinery of the _Sidewinder_. The guard staggered to a stop right outside our hiding place, looking around for us briefly, before moving on again at a jog.

"That was close!" Sonia breathed and then giggled with nervous excitement. We stayed like that for a few minutes as we caught our breath, and then I glanced down at my watch. "Is he gone?" Sonia asked.

I poked my head out to check that the coast was clear, watching the guard disappear at the end of the path and probably give up, and then shuffled back. "He's still looking for us," I lied. "Maybe we should split up for a little while; he won't be looking for just one kid."

Sonia nodded. "Okay. Meet you at the _Helter Skelter_ at ten?"

"Sure," I agreed. That gave me twenty minutes, which should be plenty of time put Phase Two into play. I let Sonia leave our hidey-hole first and waited for her to pick what part of the park that she was going to explore first, and then purposely chose the opposite direction. I needed a phone, and I didn't exactly want Sonia to witness me picking some random person's pocket.

Moving against the flow of the crowd like a salmon climbing up river, I darted between kneecaps until I spotted someone tucking a cellphone into their jeans pocket. It was just a case then of pulling off a simple brush pass, liberating the clunky device without its previous owner even noticing.

And then I just had to find somewhere quiet to make a phone call; which as you can imagine, wasn't exactly easy in a funfair. I ended up going right up to the eastern point of the outskirts of the park, leaning against the railings that cut the land off from the rocks that lined the coast. The air tasted like salt this close to the ocean, the Atlantic stretching right up to the horizon and far beyond. The sound of the wind and the waves mostly cancelled out the hectic noise behind me, hopefully masking my location.

I dialled the number that I had committed to memory months ago while scouring through the stolen case files from the GCPD, and then pressed the phone to my ear and listened to the rings.

This was it. This was the moment where my crazy idea was proven either genius or insane; and there wouldn't be any middle ground.

There was click as the call was answered.

"Hello, comrade," I greeted in my heavy Russian accent, choosing the Slaviclanguage because I knew that I could pull it off and that the harder consonants and tone would help to mask my age. "I have your daughter. If you ever wish to see her alive again, you will do exactly as I say.

"Are we clear, Mr Zucco?"


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

" _I want proof of life,"_ Zucco demanded.

Well, _crap on a cracker,_ I hadn't thought of that. My master plan to leverage a ransom out of Zucco for his supposedly abducted daughter was getting off to a flying start. But then again, at this point in my life, I had yet to be kidnapped on multiple occasions, so my experience of hostage taking was pretty much _nil._ I was essentially just making this up based on what I had seen on old TV shows and movies.

(Okay, so maybe my brilliantly thought out plan wasn't as brilliantly thought out as I had implied...)

But I couldn't break character. "In one hour you will have your proof," I lied on the spot, still trying to figure out just how exactly I was going to pull that off. "Until then, you should worry about getting me my money. Goodbye, Mr Zucco."

I hung up the phone and released the panicked breath that I hadn't realised I was holding. My hands were shaking so bad that I could hardly get the phone in my jeans pocket. I hadn't really realised just how hard it was going to be simply _talking_ to Zucco; the rage and the anger and, admittedly, the _fear_ , hitting me all at once. But I had to focus. Phase Two was complete. There was no backing out now.

It sounded like Zucco was buying my Russian mobster routine, and I was pretty sure that I had heard genuine concern for his daughter's well-being under the thick layer of animosity; so I was still calling the plan a success. But now I needed proof of life.

What even counted as proof of life? I could vaguely recall a couple of old movies where the kidnappers sent severed body parts; but I didn't think that Sonia would be up for losing a finger or an ear for the sake of a lie that she wasn't even aware of. That would be a weird conversation to have.

And then I heard an odd whirring and clicking, and glanced to my left to see a family taking a photo by the railing with one of those old disposable cameras. There came the snap of the flash, and then the clicking again as the photographer readied the next shot.

"[A photo]," I muttered out loud in Russian; accidentally slipping into the language that was more natural for me than English. A photo would count as proof, right? But obviously not with a disposable camera, I didn't have anywhere near enough time for that. No, I needed a camera phone; the old Nokia that I had stolen wasn't up to task, and then I'd...

I checked my watch and swore, realising that I had about two minutes to get to the _Helter Skelter_ to meet up with Sonia.

No one looks twice at a kid running through a funfair, so I wasn't overly worried about causing a scene as I sprinted down the crowded paths. I vaulted a few items that were in my way and cut behind ride machinery in order to get to the opposite side of the park in record time. As I staggered to a stop at the railing for the _Helter Skelter_ , Sonia was just reaching the bottom of the slide with a squeal of delight. She waved when she saw me and then ran round to meet up with me. "[Sorry,]" I apologised as I caught my breath. "[I was just...]"

"What?" Sonia interrupted, looking at me in utter confusion. Which is when I realised that I was still speaking Russian.

"Sorry," I tried again, clearing my throat in an attempt to get rid of the accent while trying to slip back into the Americanisms that I had picked up since living in Gotham.

"Are you okay?" Sonia asked. I was practically relying on the railings to keep me upright and, as far as she could tell, I was also speaking in tongues, so I guess that her concern for me was valid. But it wasn't as if I could tell her that it was the adrenaline bleeding off from having just had a potentially dangerous phone call with the man responsible for killing my entire family. "Robin?"

I nodded as convincingly as possible. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I lied, while simultaneously trying to force the shakes to stop and my breathing to even out. I pushed away from the railing and smiled. "Just, uh, the security guard caught up with me. I had to run."

Sonia looked around, trying to spot the guard that in reality was probably already back at the ticket booths, watching out for the next juvenile gate jumpers. "He's still chasing us?" she asked, her tone somewhere between worry and disbelief. "That's commitment."

"Yeah," I agreed. "I think I lost him, though. We'll just have to be careful."

"Okay," Sonia nodded, still trusting me completely, which actually hurt a lot more than I thought it would. And then she grinned and pointed at a ride that was eliciting a lot of screams from its occupants. "Wanna go on the _Tilt-a-Whirl?"_

"Sure." I said. It couldn't be that bad.

* * *

Finding a camera phone was not easy in 2006. Finding a camera phone, stealing it and then taking a picture against a background that wouldn't give away where we were without Sonia getting suspicious all within the one hour deadline that I had set myself? Now _that_ was a challenge.

But somehow I managed to pull it off, and the exchange was set for four 'o' clock. Which gave Sonia five whole hours to force me onto every single ride after consuming ridiculous amounts of cotton candy and corn dogs.

That ended about as well as you'd think.

"Best. Day. EVER!" Sonia shouted from the top of the Ferris Wheel, arms in the air as if she were actually riding the rollercoaster. A pang of nausea that had nothing to do with ill-advised junk food consumption made me sink lower in the seat, trying to look at anything other than Sonia's grinning face. It was getting closer and closer to the deadline, and with every minute that passed, the guilt multiplied tenfold. Sonia noticed my grim expression. "You still not feeling well, Robin?"

The Ferris Wheel shuddered to a stop as the process of unloading and reloading passengers began, leaving our car swaying listlessly right at the top. The height didn't bother me, but as Sonia fidgeted in her seat the car rocked violently, which didn't exactly help to settle my stomach. "I'm okay," I lied.

I was getting good at that.

The wheel moved again, lowering us down a notch, but still high enough to see pretty much all of Amusement Mile and the rest of the city beyond. "Thanks," Sonia muttered after a moment, that same oddly happy/sad expression from earlier on the train marring her smile slightly. "For today. It's been real fun."

The guilt twisted a little tighter like a knife to the stomach. I just nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"I haven't been here since..." she trailed off and chewed her lip, silent as the wheel turned again. "My mom, she used to bring me here all the time before she... before she died."

My head whipped round so fast that I swear I got whiplash. Yeah, I had read Zucco's file. I knew that he had lost his wife. But that wasn't what made my eyes go wide as the guilt moved on from stabbing me and went straight to bludgeoning me in the chest. Of all the places in Gotham that I could have chosen for this plan to go down; I managed to choose the one place with huge sentimental value. I was _using her_ to get to her _father_ in a place where her _dead mother_ used to take her.

_I'm a terrible human being._

"Don't worry about it," Sonia shrugged, taking my expression for sympathy. "It was a long time ago, like, a year, I guess. We used to come here every weekend each summer, but I's hasn't come back since she got sick. And Daddy won't take me so... anyway. Yeah, I'm just, really glad we're here. So thanks."

The ride moved again, the creaking and grinding of half rusted metal accompanying us as we got a little bit closer to the ground. "Uh, I'm really sorry," I said hesitantly, halfway between wanting to confess what the whole day trip was a front for and genuinely empathising with her loss. "About your mom."

"It's okay. I miss her, but it's okay," Sonia said with a sad smile. "I remember the last time we came here, before I knew she was sick, we spent almost the whole day playing the games so that we could win us a stuffed toy. But Daddy says they're rigged and we was stupid for trying, so my mom said that we weren't leaving until we proved him wrong. It was five minutes to closing and they were trying to hurry us out when my mom finally won at that game _there."_ Sonia pointed at a stall set up near the front gates, just visible before the wheel turned again. "She picked out this blue stuffed elephant and called it Peanuts, because that's how much money we had left after playing all those games."

I had to look away as my mind flashed back to Zucco's McMansion, and the cuddly toy that I had liberated before letting Burns and his friends loose. It was still sitting in my locker at Gotham Central, almost completely forgotten about. I still didn't even know why I had taken it; and now it was just one more nail in my coffin as the guilt buried me alive.

Sonia looked close to tears, but instead of crying she simply wiped her nose on her sleeve and pasted on a smile. "I've missed this place," she said as she took my hand. "And I'm really glad that it was you who brought me here, Robin. It's not so sad anymore."

Finally we reached the bottom of the Ferris Wheel; the attendant stepping forward to lift the bar and let us out of the car. Immediately, Sonia was leading us onto the next ride, feeling lighter than she had before; while I trudged along under the weight of her falsely earned trust, dreading the moment when she would inevitably find out the truth.

* * *

Four 'o' clock came around both too fast and too slow. Funny how time messes with you when you're anxious.

I left Sonia queuing for the _Tilt-a-Whirl_ (for the _twelfth_ time) with the excuse that just looking at the ride was making me nauseous. That bought me maybe ten minutes to make the drop and get back. I just had to hope that Zucco was keeping to my schedule.

The strong breeze coming in from the coast meant that I didn't look too weird tugging on a red hoodie in the middle of summer as I made my way through the crowd, though I left the hood down so that people wouldn't suspect me of being a juvenile delinquent or something. It was still busy, even that late in the day; but now there were more teens about than families. Which meant that being 3ft tall was a major disadvantage when it came to line of sight.

On the plus side, though, it meant that the men in Armani suits stuck right out.

There were four of them coming through the booths just as I came around the side of the _Sidewinder_. All of them were armed if the subtle touches to concealed holsters was anything to go by, and the one to the middle-right was carrying a plain black duffel bag. But Zucco himself was nowhere in sight.

Taking the phone that I had pick-pocketed earlier (the camera phone had been handed in to the Lost and Found) I dialled the mob boss's number. He picked up on the second ring. "Didn't feel like showing up in person, comrade?"

Almost instantly, the four men in suits were looking around, clocking anyone on a cellphone. Well, anyone other than the nine-year-old sitting on a bench almost directly in front of them, of course. Judging by the silence on the phone I was guessing that Zucco was talking to the men through an ear piece or something, telling them that the kidnapper was right there. _"I have better things to do than deal with the likes of you,"_ Zucco retorted snidely. _"Where's my daughter?"_

"Soon, Mr Zucco," I answered. My hands were shaking again, and all I could picture in my mind's eye was Sonia's betrayed and disappointed face, but I forced myself to stay in character. With the deep tone and the Red Hood persona, it was easier to hide behind the mask and pretend that this wasn't personal. "But first, tell your men to take the path to their right."

I slipped off the bench as the four men moved as directed, and then tagged on to the end of a group of teenagers so that I could pass as someone's kid brother if I was spotted. The men in suits moved slowly, studying every face that passed, giving me the time that I needed to pick a perfect drop spot. "Tell your men to put the money under the bench on their right," I instructed.

There was a pause as the directions were relayed, and then the man with the duffel bag broke off from the group and took a seat on the bench, kicking the bag underneath it. He then proceeded to sit there, motionless, like a guard dog. "Tell your man to move."

" _Tell me where my daughter is,"_ Zucco demanded.

I huffed impatiently, checking my watch and knowing that soon Sonia was going to start looking for me. And if the men in suits spotted her... well, it wouldn't be the happy ending that I was hoping for. For anyone. "She will be returned home once I have received my money, Mr Zucco."

" _And I'm supposed to just take that on what? Faith?"_ the mob boss asked incredulously. I had thought that Zucco would be more co-operative than this, that the threat to his daughter would make him less likely to play games, for _her_ sake. But now he believed that he held the power by giving me an ultimatum – I would _have_ to reveal myself if I wanted the ransom – and he was just being difficult.

I had literally two minutes to get the money and get back to Sonia.

The man in the suit sitting on the bench was glaring at anyone that dared to pass too close to him, while the other three had spread out a little in order to watch everyone else. There was no way to get close to the duffel bag without being seen.

Unless of course you were a tiny kid. _And_ a member of Amusement Mile's maintenance crew just happened to be wheeling one of those street sweeper carts down the path. _Right_ _towards_ the bench in question.

If Zucco believed that he held all the power; well, I was just going to have to prove him wrong.

"Goodbye, Mr Zucco," I said ominously, and then hung up the phone.

I had a moment to imagine the look of fear and uncertainty on Zucco's face, and then I was ducking down beside the cart as it passed, earning a confused look from the janitor. "Playing hide-and-seek," I explained, which made the janitor chuff a laugh and thankfully, play along. We rolled right up to the bench completely unnoticed. And then as the janitor became preoccupied with emptying the trash can, I crouched down behind the bench and tugged open the zip on the duffel bag.

Optimistically, I had asked for $10,000; which I had thought was going to be a lot but, to be honest, was probably only pocket change for a man like Zucco. Seeing it in person was even less impressive. The ransom had been paid in a few wads of $100 bills, which just made the huge black duffel seem totally unnecessary. It only took me a couple of seconds to transfer the cash over to my backpack, and then I was up and moving again; blending into the crowd.

I didn't get to see the the men in suits' reaction to the stolen money, but I can imagine that Zucco wasn't very happy about it. His little pincer movement to trap me had failed. He was $10,000 poorer. And, as far as he knew, his daughter was still kidnapped.

It was impossible to predict what would happen next. Would the scare keep Zucco quiet for a while, compliant to wait now that I had proven smarter? Or more likely, would he find some other way to retaliate – maybe send some more men to the park to search for Sonia (and ultimately discover the ploy)? Either way, I needed to wrap this up fast before things could escalate any further.

I trashed the cellphone as I sprinted back to where I had left Sonia, (sending a silent apology to whoever it was that I had stolen it from) and ran through some English phrases in my head so that I wouldn't start randomly speaking Russian again when I saw her. When I reached the railing around the _Tilt-a-Whirl,_ I even remembered to catch my breath so that it wasn't totally obvious that I had just run from one side of the park to the other and back.

"Hey Robin!" Sonia called as she spotted me, giggling as she struggled to walk in a straight line having just been spun about like crazy. Her brow furrowed as she got closer though. "Are you cold?"

Confused by the random question, I glanced down. And mentally slapped myself.

I had forgotten to take off the red hoodie.

It was too suspicious to take it off right then, so I just shrugged like it was no big deal and hoped that Sonia didn't make the connection. "A little," I said, my accent thankfully sounding relatively normal. I made a show of checking my watch. "We should get going. Your dad will be worried."

A flicker of fear crossed Sonia's features, but it was gone in a blink. She smiled a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Sure. Let's go."

* * *

The train ride back from Amusement Mile was a lot quieter than the journey there, the apprehension growing in both of us the closer that we got to Gotham Central. It had been a great day; and I was glad that I had done it, if only because I knew that Sonia had had fun too.

But we had yet to see just what the consequences of my brilliant plan would be.

I knew that my idea was incredibly selfish, leveraging money out of Zucco as a kind of poetic justice – I'm not going to deny that – but there was also another reason where I believed that maybe this could _help_ Sonia. I _hoped_ that this experience would serve as a lesson for Zucco. He was cruel and distant to his daughter; but now having felt the fear of possibly losing her, I hoped that he would have learned to appreciate her more.

With every step closer to Robinson Park, however, I was beginning to think that that was just a lie I had told myself to justify what I had done.

The backpack grew heavier on my shoulders as we walked, the $100 bills seemingly turning to lead as the final reckoning grew near. Sonia was moving slower as well, gripping my hand white-knuckle tight as we turned the corner onto her street.

All I could think was that she knew her father better than I did. And she was _terrified._ She knew just how mad he was going to be. She could already imagine the punishments that Zucco had in store for her. How selfish and stupid could I possibly have been to convince myself that this had been a _good_ idea? What the hell was _wrong_ with me? I was supposed to be trying to be a _hero._

Hero's didn't use people and abuse their trust.

"Sonia, wait," I said, breaking the near-total silence that had enveloped us since leaving the park. We came to a stop near the main gate of Robinson Park; across the street and a few doors down from Zucco's safe house. "There's something I should tell you..."

"It's okay," Sonia stopped me with a wry smile. She glanced at her home and then purposely looked away and focused on me. "I knows you're worried, about my Daddy and what he'll do. And I guess, well, I'm a little scared too. But today has been the best day I've had for a really long time, Robin, and no matter what he does, it was totally worth it. I wouldn't change a thing."

She smiled warmly at me; her eyes so sincere and trusting that I thought that I might spontaneously combust under their stare. And then she was making to walk on again, so I grabbed her hand to keep her still. "Look, Son," I blurted, the truth sitting expectantly on the tip of my tongue, but not able to make it past my lips. "If... if your dad asks where you've been... Just, just say that it wasn't your choice, okay? That you were... kidnapped, or something."

Sonia chuckled, and then grinned. "Kidnapped by my best friend? I can think of worse things."

And with that she left, running up the drive way of her house as if she were fearless. Holding my breath in anticipation, I stood and watched from the other side of the street as the front door flew open before Sonia had even reached the porch steps; Zucco's unmistakable silhouette filling the frame. I couldn't hear what he said exactly, but his voice that carried sounded relieved and happy as he dropped to one knee and welcomed his daughter home with a hug.

It was weird seeing the mob boss act so human. I mean, this is what I had been hoping for, that he would finally see Sonia and give her the attention that she deserved. But actually _seeing_ it... Well, he was still the villain in my eyes. And villains didn't hug people.

The door closed, and I sagged back against the park railings as I realised that I had pulled it off. Zucco believed that his daughter had been kidnapped and returned to him unharmed. Sonia had had her day of freedom. I had successfully robbed my family's killer and made a father realise that his daughter existed.

"I can't tell if that was skill or just dumb luck," Selina's voice announced before she seemingly melted out of the shadows beside me. I would like to say that I was totally used to her random appearing acts by now, but no. I jumped out of my skin before trying in vain to hide the fact with an eye-roll as she placed a hand on my shoulder. "Nice job, kitten."

"You've been watching me?" I asked. I hadn't seen Sneaker for a while, the battered tabby that usually tattled on me to Catwoman, but I had learned to be suspicious of every feline in Gotham. I didn't actually believe that they talked to her or anything, but I couldn't think of any other explanation as to how Selina always knew what I was up to.

"Not today," Selina shrugged. "But I've been in the neighbourhood. Heard a few whispers. People are saying that Zucco had his daughter taken by someone in the Russian mob." She raised an appreciative eyebrow at me. "Creative. _Dangerous,_ but creative."

I shrugged. I was feeling pretty good about myself right then, now that the potentially disastrous repercussions had been averted. In fact; I was beginning to form a tally in my head of all my strikes against Zucco – first the McMansion, then the car, then the watch... and now both his money _and_ his daughter... Admittedly, I was feeling a little smug.

But that money still felt heavy on my shoulders.

Selina watched as I unzipped my backpack and dug out a wad of notes and held them out for her to take. Her eyes widened as she counted the amount that I had randomly picked up, and then crinkled curiously. "What's this for?"

"To say thank you," I replied. "For looking out for me."

"Huh," Selina murmured thoughtfully as she tucked the money away (probably already thinking about which cat shelter she was going to donate it to) and then ruffled my hair. "You really are one of a kind, aren't you?"

I made a non-committal gesture and shifted awkwardly. "It's just money."

Selina shook her head as if I had completely missed the point, and then her gaze drifted over to Zucco's ominous safe house lurking across the street. She frowned, and then glanced down at me, her hand tightening on my shoulder. "Are you sure that he doesn't suspect anything? That the girl won't talk?"

"Sonia won't say anything," I said without a doubt. Even though she was probably very confused at to why her father was suddenly so happy to see her, I knew that she was smart enough to play along. I planned to swing by the treehouse and explain... once I had come up with a story somewhat plausible of course. "And Zucco totally bought it."

I was grinning confidently, but Selina still looked apprehensive as she watched the house opposite. "You still need to be careful," she warned.

I should have listened.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

I spent the rest of that night playing the vigilante version of St. Nick – spreading goodwill and all that. The cash that I had stolen wasn't mine, and it was never meant to be; but I had met plenty of people these past few months who could definitely use it.

I stuck about a quarter of it in an envelope and posted it through Jim Gordon's letterbox. (He probably turned it in to the GCPD because he's a good cop like that, but I hoped that maybe he kept some of it). I swung by Leslie Thompson's free clinic too, leaving a wad of bills that most likely paled in comparison to what the Wayne Foundation donated to her, but felt good regardless. I even briefly went back to Bristol long enough to leave a gift for Nurse Angie to say thank you, with a note asking her to share the cash with Boxer and the others.

The backpack was feeling a heck of a lot lighter on my shoulders with every drop; but I had one more stop to make. There was a mansion-full of people that I knew could use a little financial aid.

It was nearing dawn by the time that I finally made it to Coventry, the deep blue sky turning burnt orange at the edges, and an orchestra of various birds providing the soundtrack for the otherwise silent cul-de-sac. The gated community with its perfectly manicured lawns and windy tarmac roads was picture perfect compared to the grimy city that I had grown used to; the weird peacefulness making some instinct tingle at the base of my spine.

But I ignored it and kept walking. Sure, it was a little weird that there didn't seem to be any cars parked on the driveways; but these McMansions all came with double garages – the SUVs and sports cars were probably just out of sight. And okay, maybe the fact that the street lights had flickered off of their timers a little early, leaving only the amber glow of dawn to light the way, was a little eerie; but maybe they were going green and saving electricity?

I will admit thought, that I definitely should have paid more notice to the mysteriously absent electric company truck. It had been idling on the sidewalk for the past few months, but now was gone. But right then, I just told myself that the feds had gone for a coffee run or something and kept going.

Ducking through the hole in the hedgerow, I made my way up through the meticulously landscaped garden and headed for the back door that I knew would be unlocked.

Silence greeted me as I stepped into the kitchen of Zucco's McMansion, but again, it was like four in the morning, it wasn't as if it was unlikely that the previously-homeless occupants would be asleep, so I didn't think anything of it. I just took in the damage done to the once-pristine kitchen; the ravaged larder, the open fridge door, the piled-high dishes in the sink and on every surface; the trash that had yet to make it to a can... I was grinning to myself, imagining Zucco's reaction when he saw the place.

Smug. Cocky. Over-confidant. Complacent.

Ignorant to the obvious signs that something was _very_ wrong.

From the kitchen I made way down the hall, glancing through every door to see more of the damage that Burns and his friends had wrought. Graffiti, dirt, vandalism. I hadn't realised just how trashed the mansion would get with fifty-odd homeless people squatting there, but I had to admit, I was impressed.

So when I walked into the main entrance hall and saw Burns and a couple of his friends lounging on furniture dragged in from the sitting room, I didn't think twice.

"I love what you've done with the place," I quipped, smirking. Proud.

"Funny," a voice that sent chills down my spine replied from somewhere above me. I turned, glanced up at the top of the stairs, and froze. "I was about to say the same thing to you."

Tony Zucco.

My brain stalled as it struggled to process what it was that I was seeing. It was dark in the mansion, only the early morning light struggling to stream through the windows making any attempt to banish the shadows. But Zucco was impossible to miss as he leaned over the banister casually, his beady eyes boring into me from beneath a fedora.

I flashed back to _that_ day, at Haly's, pinned under the same predatory gaze and powerless. None of what I had done; the obstacles that I had overcome, the strikes at Zucco that I had achieved, _none_ of it mattered in that moment. All I could see was the man who had taken everything from me. All I could hear was the _snap_ of a broken rope and the _thuds_ of bodies hitting concrete. The anger that had fuelled me was gone; buried. Drained. All that I had left was the fear.

I had thought that I could face him; that I was somehow strong enough now. That the fear was conquered. And maybe, maybe if I had confronted him on my own terms, if he hadn't just appeared out of nowhere, maybe I could have. Maybe the panic wouldn't have gripped me so tight that it felt as if I was physically being held in place.

Maybe I would have remembered how to breathe.

Zucco made a gesture with his right hand, and I realised then that he wasn't alone. His guards, his entourage, his _small army_ , stepped forward; surrounding me on all sides. They lined the banister like an honour guard on either side of Zucco. They appeared from alcoves and darkened doorways around the entrance hall. I couldn't keep my wits together long enough to count them; but I could feel every gun settle on me like a promise.

"Kid..." a strained voice wheezed from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, carefully, hesitantly, until I saw Burns staring at me through his one good eye. This time, I saw the restraints that kept him and the other few homeless residents bound to the armchairs. This time, I saw the bruises and the blood. " _Run_ kid..."

Fight. Flight. Freeze. Bruce talks about it all the time in training; about how there isn't _one_ correct response. You have to assess the situation; weigh up the odds, think through your options. He always makes it sound like an actual thought process, and maybe for him, it is. But for me, it's always been instinct.

And my first instinct is always to run.

That sounds cowardly, I know, but it's true. A millisecond later I might change my mind; override that base thought and choose to fight instead, but that first, knee-jerk reaction is _always_ run.

I was moving before the first shot was fired; and then the tense silence was broken by a cacophony of gunfire. I wasn't paying attention as to whether they were shooting to kill, or maim, or disable; I was far more concerned with escaping. Any direction seemed like a bad idea, but Burns and his friends were between me and the front door and I had just enough sense to know not to let them get caught in the crossfire. So I ran the other way, back towards the hallway that I had come from, and the winding passages that would lead to the back door.

The corners provided a degree of cover as I fled; bullets pitting the plaster inches away from me and raining down splinters and dust, turning my red hoodie a speckled shade of grey. My lungs burned as I forgot to control my breathing; I was practically hyperventilating as my feet pounded the oak floors, running faster than I ever had in my short nine and a half years of life. I ignored it all as my vision tunnelled purely on the fast approaching kitchen, freedom almost in sight.

There were two men waiting by the back door, but they seemed more surprised that I had made it that far than concerned with stopping me, so I didn't bother entertaining the thought of slowing down or taking cover. No, with who knew how many men pursuing me down the hall and the two guys slow to raise their weapons; I decided to use the kitchen counter as a springboard and vaulted up and over their heads. It was clumsy; no flair, lacking the usual grace, and ended with me slamming through the back door and tumbling down the steps. But I was back on my feet, moving, heading for the tree line when –

 _Something_ slammed into my leg, yanking the limb out from under me with enough force to send me plummeting face-first into the grass. I thought that I had just tripped and was struggling to get back up when I felt something hot and wet running down my leg.

 _Oh come on!_ I remember thinking, believing that I had had a little 'accident', losing control of bladder functions in my panic. _I'm not_ that _scared!_ But then I looked down at the dark patch on my jeans; noting that the fluid was red and pouring from a hole in my thigh that hadn't been there a few minutes ago, and I realised that _hell_ _yes._ I damn well _was_ that scared. Because I had just been _shot._

The pain hit moments later; indescribable. Worse than being beaten or stabbed – worse than _anything_ I had ever felt before.

Italian shoes crushed the grass as they approached, forcing my eyes away from the wound and up at Tony Zucco. Several of his men surrounded him, but hung back a little, letting the boss stalk up to me like a predator. I tried to get away, using my elbows to half-crawl, half-drag myself backwards, but Zucco halted those attempts by simply _stepping_ on me.

He pressed the sole of his expensive shoe right into the gun shot wound, twisting like he was stubbing out a cigarette. The pain – the _pain,_ was too much. Excruciating. Blinding. Overloading.

I sagged back against the lawn, staring sightlessly at the sky as everything whited out to black.

* * *

I woke up looking at my knees.

My back was aching from the weird position that I had fallen asleep in, and my head felt funny, clouded. My eyes were dry and crusted with salt from my tears, but when I went to rub them, I found that I couldn't.

It took maybe five more seconds for the memories to come back.

I was tied to a chair; wooden, no arms, one leg shorter than the others making it rock with the slightest movement. My hands were bound by the wrists to the top of the back legs, stretching my shoulders painfully; my ankles zip-tied at a strange angle to the base of the front legs. I was hunched over, curled in protectively, giving me the perfect view of my bloodstained jeans; the crude bandage tied around the bullet hole already turning red.

My stomach rolled as the pain made itself known again, waking me up fully as I groaned against the gag that I discovered wedged between my teeth.

"Oi, oi," a voice I recognised said gleefully, encouraging me to lift my head slightly to look around. My eyes were blurry, but I could still make out the short skinny figure of Benny; the far larger frame of his partner in crime Joe shuffling into the edge of my vision. "Looks like the brat's awake."

I didn't have the energy to be properly scared. Blood loss and shock has that affect on you. But I vaguely recalled all of the reasons why these two goons might be ever-so-slightly pissed with me, the apprehension of what they might do making me a little more alert.

"Not'so smart now, are ya, Hoodie?" Benny gloated as he came closer, making the cigarette stuck to his lip dance as he spoke. He still moved with a limp from the exploding trailer episode; and looking past him, I could see the burn scars that marred Joe's bald head. And then there was the incident outside that bar in the Eastern Quarter, the pair of them failing to kill me a second time. Sonia had made it sound as if they had lost a lot of face because of me; relegated to babysitting, making up stories to make it sound like they hadn't been beaten by a kid...

Yeah, they _definitely_ had a bone to pick with me.

"Youse thinks ya some kind a hero, do ya?" Benny asked dangerously. I leaned back in the chair as the smell of tobacco filled my nostrils, making me turn my head away just so that I could breathe. Benny barked a laugh at my apparent submission, and then looked back over his shoulder at his partner. "Come on, Joe. Come look at this pathetic trash. Looks like he don't lives up to the hype, eh, Hoodie?"

I heard the heavier footsteps of Joe closing the distance, his imposing size casting me entirely in shadow. A large hand clapped onto my shoulder and _squeezed_ , making me grunt in pain through the gag. Joe laughed, perhaps a little nervously, and looked to Benny. "He ain't so tough no more."

"No, no he ain't," Benny agreed. The pressure alleviated from my shoulder as the two goons stepped back, allowing sunlight to hit my upturned face. I squinted in the brightness, just making out a long, thin window set high up in the wall. It was then that I realised that I wasn't at the McMansion anymore. I didn't know where I was. But there was the creaking of old wood and the smell of something musty mixed in with the tobacco, and I figured that if anyone was looking for me, _they wouldn't look there_.

The exhaustion got a lot heavier at that realisation.

"Youse got a lot to answer for, brat," Benny was saying, dragging my attention back to the room and the goons and the chair and the pain. "And not just for playin' _us_ for fools. You picked the _wrooong_ boss to mess with, Hoodie. And now Zucco's gonna make you _pay."_

My eyelids started to drift shut, each blink getting longer.

And then Joe slapped me across the face, his huge hand clapping across my cheek and making my ears ring.

"No checking out on us yet, kid," Benny said shortly, grabbing me by the chin and forcing eye contact. Ash from his cigarette dropped onto my cheek, my flinch at the heat making Benny's grin widen. "Ya see, we's just here to keep an eye on you, make sures ya stay put. But no ones said that ya had to stay in one piece. And I wants you to _feel_ this, Hoodie."

He punched me, hard, in the gut, doubling me over as far as I could while bound to the chair as I coughed against the gag. And then Joe kicked me in the shin, making my leg jerk and the bullet wound burn afresh. I swear that I could feel the lump of metal wriggle in my thigh, the thought of the foreign object inside my body making the agony _that much worse._

After that, I couldn't distinguish between the hits or who was dishing them out anymore. I couldn't even tell you how long the beating went on for or be certain of when it stopped. Everything just _hurt,_ too much to comprehend.

"What makes me laugh, tho," Benny's voice broke through the haze. He was gripping my hair, tugging it so that I had no choice but to look up at him. "Is thats youse thought ya could get away with it. That because youse was wearing a hoodie, and fighting the good fight, that youse was one of them Masks types. Did ya think you were Batman, eh, Hoodie? Did ya think we wouldn' figure it out?"

Maybe every other word was getting through to me, and there was no way that I could answer through the gag, but that didn't seem to bother Benny.

"We _saw_ you," Benny said smugly, his face so close to mine that I couldn't focus on it even if I wanted to. "It was _us_ who figured it out. They all said we was stoopid, making up stories about t'Red Hood. The boss put us on _babysitting_ , because a'you. But the thing is... the thing is, that we was watching the _girl_. And the _girl's new friend._ The girl vanishes on our watch. We thinks, 'this is it'. It's over for us. But no. _"_

Joe came around the side of Benny and pulled up my hood. "We was watching."

"The girl gets walked home from her kidnapping," Benny continued, letting go of my hair and then making a show of straightening out my hoodie. "By a _kid_ ina _red hood."_

The two goons let go of me, backing off to admire their handiwork. I sagged in the chair, the restraints the only thing keeping me from sliding onto the floor. Everything was getting fuzzy, blurry around the edges; the bruises, cuts and even the bullet wound growing numb as I lost my hold on consciousness.

"He ain't so scary," Joe said.

"Youse wait til the boss gets here," Benny answered. "Then you'll see _scary."_

* * *

It was dark the next time that I woke up. Pitch black except for the single bulb dangling above me like a spotlight.

I blinked under the onslaught, my sluggish mind and broken body struggling to co-ordinate enough to move my head so that I wasn't being blinded. My chin dropped to my chest so that my hood shielded my eyes, giving me the chance to try and wake up properly.

I sensed the movement rather than saw it. The scrape of chair legs on concrete as someone stood, before a shadow fell over me. A hand tugged my hood back, untied the gag. And then my heavy head was being lifted to look up at someone.

"Richard Grayson," Tony Zucco muttered with a weird smile. "I should have known."

He let go and moved back, but I was just with it enough to hold my own head up. I watched as the round man in the expensive suit pulled his chair forward and sat, so that we were knee to knee, and looked at me thoughtfully. I glanced around, looking for his guards, but there was no one.

It was just the two of us. Alone.

"Do you want to know how I killed your family?"

Zucco asked; his tone no different than if he were asking me what the weather was like or if I wanted to hear a story. My eyes widened and my breath hitched at his words; the Fall playing out in vivid technicolor in my mind's eye. Panic, fear and yes, a _spark_ of anger, ignited my exhausted brain, but I didn't yet trust myself to speak. I glared at the man who murdered my family.

"I used this."

A vial appeared in Zucco's hands, seemingly out of nowhere; the bottle small and innocuous and the cause of so much loss and pain.

"It's an acid," Zucco explained as he twisted the cap. I watched, enthralled, hypnotised, as he lifted the cap to the light, exposing the pipette and the yellow fluid that gathered at its tip. "Highly corrosive. Completely untraceable. _Painful_."

He hovered the pipette above my uninjured thigh, and let a single drop of the acid fall.

For a moment, nothing happened. But the _smell_ was familiar. In an instant, I was there; on the centre platform, watching the rope burn as my family performed their final show below me. The thin wisp of smoke. The fraying fibres. The _SNAP-_

" _AAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!"_ I screamed, pain yanking me back to the here and now. My leg – it _burned,_ so bad. The bullet hole was _nothing_ compared to this. It stung like I was being stabbed with needles a hundred times over and then had salt rubbed on the wound and then scraped off with a grater. My scream choked off only when I ran out breath, my eyes slowly dragging open to take in the damage.

There was a hole in my jeans, maybe the size of a dime; thread smoking around the edges.

Beyond that, my skin was _bubbling._

I was hyperventilating as I forced myself to look away, but the image was imprinted on my retinas, making my imagination exaggerate the pain even further. I was crying; tears streaming down my cheeks, but I hadn't the mind to feel embarrassed.

"Breathe, Richard. We're not done yet," Zucco said, almost reassuringly. He waited until I had regained some semblance of control over my breathing, and then he leaned forward conversationally. "I had one of my men put just a _drop_ of this on the rope. Well, a diluted version of course. It wouldn't have worked if the rope was broken before the show now, would it?"

Two drops fell this time. The anticipation of what was to come had me thrashing against my restraints before the acid had even eaten it's way through my jeans.

When it actually hit the skin, I _lost_ it.

I was sobbing uncontrollably, but whether that was from the pain or the thoughts of my family or the memories from _that_ night or all of it together, I couldn't tell. It hurt. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally.

"It was an accident, you know," Zucco said nonchalantly, once the screaming had stopped. I glared up at him through my bangs, looking for the lie, but not seeing it. "I never intended to kill them. It was only meant to be a scare; a reminder that _accidents happen_. I didn't know that part of the act was done without a net. Tell me..."

He paused, studying me like I was a jigsaw puzzle, and then dribbled some more of the acid across my legs.

"Does that make it hurt less, or _more_?"

He asked as if he genuinely wanted an answer. The acid worked it's way through my jeans, who knows how many drops of the liquid scalding my skin. I wondered numbly if the acid would burn all the way through my thighs; the imagery of my legs falling off oddly less horrific than the _screams_ and _thuds_ and _snaps_ that accompanied my pain-fuelled delusions. I couldn't tell if I was still screaming or if the strength to do that had long since left me.

When I found the energy to open my eyes again, I was hunched forward on my chair; my bound hands keeping me from falling off. I could feel blood from my wrists dripping from my fingertips from where the zip-ties had cut into them, but I couldn't feel the pain itself. In fact, I was starting to realise that I couldn't feel a whole lot of anything anymore.

That was probably shock setting in.

"I understand why you felt the need to retaliate like you did," Zucco continued as if we having a casual conversation. I watched him through my lashes, unable to do anything more than breathe raggedly and blink. "My home. My car. My watch. I took something important from you, so you returned the favour. I understand that."

He leaned forward again, and I flinched, expecting him to use the acid again. But he simply screwed the cap back on the bottle and laughed to himself. "Here I was, expecting some assassin of the night to find me, but no. It was a child pulling _pranks."_ He shrugged. "I think, I think that I probably could have forgiven that. That we could have chalked that up to 'boys being boys'. But you had to take it _too_ _far._

"You had to bring _my daughter_ into this."

His tone shifted, changed, becoming infinitely more dangerous. He stood from his seat and loomed over me, planting a hand on my shoulder to keep himself balanced. "You had to turn her _against_ me. _Poison her mind_. Make her _fear_ me. Because of you, my own daughter _lied_ to me! Do you understand how _mad_ that makes me?! _Do_ _you_?!"

"Please..." I whispered, voice hoarse from screaming. I didn't even know who I was begging for. Myself. My family. Sonia. "Don't..."

"You took her away from me," Zucco hissed, spittle flying. "And for that you are going to join your family. But nothing so quick as falling, no. No – you are going to _burn."_

Zucco ripped the top back off of the bottle, ignoring the acid that splashed his own fingers at the rough motion, and then threw the cap to the floor. I didn't know what he was going to do, and that terrified me; but it wasn't half so scary as when I figured it out.

Zucco grabbed me by the back of my head, using his knee to keep the chair steady as I fought his grip. He held the bottle over my face, a manic grin splitting his round features. "Say ' _ah_ ', Richard."

"NO!" I yelled, before slamming my mouth stubbornly closed, struggling against my restraints with everything I had left. But then Zucco used his thumb to pressure my jaw open, and no matter what I did, I couldn't close it. My heart was thundering in my chest. Sobs tore from my exposed throat. The restraints shredded my skin.

_BANG._

The door exploded open, the surprise enough to shake Zucco's focus. His arm jerked automatically, the vial tipping; but I managed to wrench my head to one side, out of his grip.

Something unbelievably _hot_ burned through my hoodie, and then my neck and my shoulder, and I remember thinking that _this was it._

And then there was a dark shape and _nothing._

* * *

Someone was tugging my arm out of the sleeve of my hoodie. Which was weird enough in itself, but when I managed to open my eyes and look up, I found that it was _Batman_ tugging my arm out of the sleeve of my hoodie.

"Stay still," he instructed when he noticed me glaring at him confusion. I was slowly becoming more aware; realising that it was cold and dark and we were outside. The distant wail of sirens reached us over the sound of the rain washing the streets; the heavier drips from the overhang we were sheltered under sounding as loud as drumbeats to my half-conscious ears. I also realised that I was lying against the kevlar of Batman's armour, the Dark Knight half-cradling me as he finally freed me of the hoodie.

"Wh-?" I kind of asked.

"Gordon can't know that you were the Red Hood," Batman explained. He then proceeded to examine the bullet hole in my leg and check the chemical burns that covered my neck, shoulder and thighs. "Zucco kidnapped you as Richard Grayson and tried to silence you from testifying against him."

I couldn't tell if Batman was explaining what had happened or was telling me my story, so I just nodded along like I totally understood.

"Richard, stay awake," Batman ordered. I hadn't even noticed that my eyes were closed. Everything was so dark anyway, I didn't see the point.

Apparently, the sirens had gotten closer than I remembered them being, because the next thing I knew I was looking up at the ginger caterpillar that could only belong to Jim Gordon. He looked me over with concern, helping Batman tie a fresh pressure bandage around my leg as he called out for a paramedic. I let my head drop back against Batman's arm so that I could see what was going on beyond; watching with detached interest as the GCPD rounded up Zucco's men that Batman had already taken out.

"-come after him," Batman was saying, telling the story that he had just told me to Jim. "He'll need somewhere safe, secure, to stay. Falcone won't let a potential witness against Zucco live now that you have the leverage to strong-arm him."

Jim nodded, a twinkle of something that I didn't have the energy to read in his eyes.

"I think I might know someone."

* * *

It was four days later by the time that I next woke up, and this time I was in a bed. But it wasn't in a hospital and it wasn't Leslie's clinic. No, it was Wayne Manor.

I couldn't feel anything through the drug haze, but with monumental effort, I managed to shift enough to get a look at some of the bandages that poked out from under the bedclothes. Several wires and tubes hooked me up to the IV pole, but that wasn't the only thing taking up residence beside the king-size bed.

"Brsss?" I muttered, and then crinkled my nose at the scratchy sound and weird feeling in my throat. But it was enough to get Bruce's attention, who had been dozing upright in the chair next to me. We kind of looked at each other for a minute, not really sure what to say, and then Bruce stood and made himself busy double-checking that I hadn't pulled anything loose in my attempts to wake up.

Finally, he stopped, and sat back down again, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

It would have been funny if it wasn't taking me so much damn effort just to be conscious.

"Is this... the part..." I wheezed, then growled in irritation at my own voice. "Where you say... I told you so?"

Bruce watched me for a moment, that way he always does, like he's... _appraising_ you – measuring you against whatever expectations he had had in his mind and leaving you wondering whether or not you surpassed them. "No," he said carefully, his lip quirking slightly. "That comes later."

I think that that might have been a joke, but it was still early days in my efforts to give Bruce a sense of humour, so I decided to just roll with it and half-smile back.

"Zucco's in custody," he said abruptly, probably testing how much I remembered without outright asking. I just nodded, not having the energy to pay too much thought or emotional instability to the whole experience. And then Bruce decided to throw another curveball at me because, hey, why not? "Captain Gordon was concerned for your safety, so he petitioned the courts for me to have temporary guardianship over you."

I blinked, because that made no sense. "But you don't...want me..."

Bruce glanced away, something like shame flickering over his stoic features, which was too surreal for words. "Wayne Manor is your home now, for as long as you need it."

I figured that I was still asleep by this point. I had to be. So all I said was:

"M'kay."


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Three months later and, shockingly, I was still living at Wayne Manor. But that didn't mean that I had given up the night job.

The Red Hood still lived.

Even if he was limping rather pathetically right then.

It was the beginning of October and the weather was already miserable; rain swaying between apocalyptic thunderstorms and constant drizzle, leaving no room for sunshine in between. The nights were cold and dark and wet; providing the perfect cover for when it came to sneaking out of the manor house – but not nearly so helpful when it came to hiding the evidence the morning after.

Being a vigilante based outside of the city was a lot harder that Batman made it out to be, but then again, he _did_ have the car. Or the jet. Or the motorcycle. _My_ transportation of choice however, (given my limited options due to the need to keep my nightly activities a secret from Bruce) was a push bike stolen from the neighbour's kid.

(And by the way; riding a bike to Gotham and back with a bit of patrol in the middle? Not fun.)

That morning, I was running late. The dawn chorus had already started and the sun was making a lazy attempt to rise, which I knew meant that Batman would be returning to the roost any time now. I had to get off of the main road before the batmobile came screeching down the country lane and caught me red-hooded, (see what I did there?) and grounded me for life. Or sent me back to Bristol. Or batglared me into a puddle of goop.

So anyway, when I finally reached the Drake's side gate I practically fell off of the bike in relief. The lock was picked with ease from way too much practice, the gate opening without a sound. My leg, with the mostly-healed bullet wound, had seized up from over-exertion, making my gait awkward as I walked the bike up the garden path. It ached with every step; reminding me of Alfred's stern words to let it heal before doing anything strenuous (advice that had gone completely ignored). In fact, everything ached with the bone-deep exhaustion that came with playing vigilante; muscles strained, mind tired, twinges of pain reminding me of bruises that would shine come the morning.

And that's what I'm gonna blame for letting my guard down.

"You always bring it back," a young voice said from behind me. I just about overrode the urge to whirl around in surprise, remembering at the last millisecond that I had an identity to protect. Instead, I turned my head slightly, able to peek around the side of my rain-soaked hood without revealing any of my face.

Standing there in his pyjamas and a raincoat was the tiniest four-year-old that I have ever seen. Seriously, he couldn't have been bigger than a puppy, and he looked like one too; all big round eyes and naïve bravery, walking up to a stranger breaking into his yard in the middle of the night (or early morning, as it was). He stuck out his hand to shake. "Timothy Drake."

I don't what possessed me to, but I silently took the proffered hand, making Timmy smile toothily at me.

"You don't have to tell me your name," Tim said. He rocked on his heels like the excited toddler that he was; but despite that he spoke weirdly for a kid. Nothing was mispronounced or stammered, and he sounded educated, smart; like maybe he had been listening to Mozart since before he was even a twinkle in his mother's eye. And then I noted his pyjamas that were just plain tartan – way too grown up for a kid who looked like he might explode from excitement as he stood there talking to a stranger.

(I had only recently convinced Alfred to get me a set of Superman pyjamas to wind Bruce up; and I was six years this kid's senior...)

It had to be a rich kid thing.

"I know that you have to protect your secret identity because you're a superhero," Tim continued, oblivious to my musings. I blinked at his use of the word _'superhero',_ but with most of my figure shrouded in the shadow of the Drake's shed, I doubted that he could see the twitch. "You're the Red Hood, right?"

"What gave it away?" I asked from behind the titular hoodie.

Tim paused hesitantly, as if he didn't quite get the sarcasm. But then it clicked, and he giggled shyly.

Keeping my accent as American-sounding as possible, I gestured at the bike that I had just chained back up next to the shed. "This yours then?"

Tim nodded, and then shrugged; but both answers seemed honest. The bike in question was big enough for me to ride, (admittedly, I was tiny too, but compared to the puppy/slash/toddler, I was a _giant)_ and had two wheels and gears and whatnot; which didn't exactly seem age appropriate. "My father bought it for me last Christmas," Tim explained, and then shrugged again. "Well, Anne did. His assistant. But the card said, 'with compliments, Jack Drake', so it was from my father too."

"Oh," I said. Because really, what else do you say to that?

"Rosa said that I'll grow into it," Tim continued confidently, referring to their housekeeper. "But I don't mind if you use it until then. It will just get rusty waiting for me in the shed, and you need it to fight crime, so."

"Thanks," I replied, a little awkwardly. Just from that short conversation I was getting an idea of why little Timmy seemed so grown up, and I didn't like it. Jack and Janet Drake _weren't_ bad parents really; Tim always assures me, they were just busy. He forgave them every missed birthday and Christmas and school play and parent teacher conference. He loved them and they loved him, but it was just that communication was bad in the middle. That was all.

I remember wondering back then, which was worse? Being left behind by losing a family like I had, or being totally alone despite actually still having parents; but simply having no way to reach them.

"You've got to get back to your secret lair, right?" Tim asked, breaking the silence. It was practically daylight by then; the sun just visible behind the rain clouds that were a constant fixture above Gotham in autumn. Sneaking across Wayne Manor's grounds was going to be damn near impossible – I just had to hope that neither Alfred nor Bruce decided to look out a window... because that would be pretty hard to explain...

Timmy smiled at me, and then stepped back and turned around; making a very obvious show of not trying to look beneath the hood now that most of the shadows had receded. "Bye Red Hood," he said over his shoulder as he began to trudge back towards his home.

"See you later, Timmy."

Tim glanced back at the promise in that sentence, a grin splitting his little face in two. And then he ran off, practically skipping, as I snickered quietly to myself and headed towards my own house.

* * *

Against all odds, I made it over the mile high wall around the perimeter of the manor and across the grounds without so much as a hiccup. I had learned through trial and error over the past few months which window belonged to my room (having accidentally snuck into the library, an empty room in the west wing, and on one occasion, Bruce's study. Thankfully he wasn't in it at the time...), and made my way there accordingly.

My leg had completely seized up by this point; the abused injury stubbornly refusing to allow any movement below the hip, which made scaling the trellis an... _interesting_ experience. I ended up performing a weird kind of drag-hop-drag routine, praying that the flimsy wood stayed screwed to the brickwork. It took a solid five minutes just to climb the two stories, my whole body shaking by the time that I finally managed to reach the sill. I had propped the window open with a book, so it was simply a case of shoving it up high enough to clamber through.

Well, really, it was more like I _fell_ through, tripping and tumbling through the opening so that I ended up in a heap on the carpet, muttering creative cusses in Russian under my breath. Mom would have been proud.

I stayed on the floor for probably another few minutes, before pushing myself upright with monumental effort, and reaching up to close the window and shut the curtains. The room was freezing from having been exposed to the elements all night, but I didn't really notice the temperature as I dragged myself to my feet and went about the routine of hiding the evidence.

Limping around the room, I tugged off the hoodie and shoved it in my backpack; my dirty jeans and t-shirt quickly following suit. Alfred had left my pyjamas folded neatly on the pillow of the bed, and I pulled them on as I staggered towards the closet.

I had discovered, my first lucid night in the manor, that without being sedated or semi-high on pain pills, I simply could not sleep in the huge bed in the massive empty room. All that space freaked me out – too many places for bad guys and monsters to hide. I was used to hunkering down in secreted corners; my back to the wall and all access points visible. And even before that, I used to live in a trailer; practically sleeping in the cupboard above my parents' bed. So no, I did not like my room one bit.

But I was grateful to Bruce and Alfred for giving me somewhere to stay, so I had found a way to make it work. And my grand solution was: the closet.

(It had scared the crap out of the Alfred the first time that he had come to wake me up and found that the bed was empty.)

A blanket and various other soft furnishings had been rustled together into a little nest at the base of the wardrobe; providing the perfect soft landing for when I literally dropped at the end of a long night. I curled up on my side like a cat and pulled the doors to, the slatted panels allowing me to check my surroundings before my eyes finally slid shut and gave in to exhaustion.

Five minutes later (though the clock on the nightstand _insisted_ that it had been two hours) and Alfred was knocking on my door. Through the fog of interrupted sleep, I heard the butler busy about my room; placing the breakfast tray on the dresser and then generally tidying up. "Good morning, Master Richard. Rise and shine."

Stubbornly, I snuggled deeper into my nest.

Bright light suddenly broke through the slats as the butler pulled open the curtains with gusto; the rain having stopped for the first time since September just so that the sunshine could blind me out of spite. And then Alfred opened the door to my closet slightly and I blinked up at him through bleary eyes. "It's'not morning," I slurred, completely in denial.

"I assure you that it is, young sir," Alfred replied, a warm smile on his lips before the professionalism took over. "Come now, Master Richard. I expect you in the library in one hour to begin your lessons."

I'm pretty damn sure that I heard Alfred chuckle gleefully as he left, leaving me groaning irritably into my pillow over the unfairness of having to be conscious. It took some serious internal debate to finally convince myself that I did indeed have to get up, which is when I discovered that everything still hurt.

Two hours of sleep was nowhere near enough to ease the aches and pains that were building up from my night time activities; and now every single bruise and cut and pulled muscle was singing in harmony as I gradually sat up. It wasn't until I had spent nearly half of my allotted hour stretching out the kinks that I was finally able to stand; wobbling away from the nest like a baby bird learning to fly.

I moved the breakfast tray over to the nightstand, the smell of pancakes enticing me to perch on the edge of the bed as I picked up the cutlery. I was halfway through demolishing them (vigilantism makes you hungry, okay?) when I noticed that Alfred had left a newspaper folded beside the plate. Being a kid, this wasn't exactly a regular occurrence, so I figured that Alfred had just accidentally put the paper on my tray instead of Bruce's.

But I should have realised – Alfred doesn't do things by _accident._

Curiosity, more than anything, made me pick up the copy of the _Gotham Gazette_ and glance through the articles. I almost choked on my hastily devoured pancakes as I came across a grainy picture of me below the headline: _The Red Hood: Fact or Fiction?_

Automatically, I glanced at where I had tossed my backpack that morning, momentarily panicking when I realised that it was missing. I was terrified that Alfred had taken it to show to Bruce and that that was it. It was over. I was going back to Bristol. But then common sense kicked in. Knowing the butler like I did, I knew that it was far more likely that he had taken the clothes to simply wash them; the paper left as a warning. It was Alfred's subtle way of telling me that I wasn't half as sneaky as I thought I was.

That I was getting careless.

I lost my appetite after that, the rest of the pancakes going uneaten and abandoned beside the newspaper. I had maybe twenty minutes left before I had to be downstairs; just enough time to have a quick shower and make myself marginally presentable.

My thoughts were scattered as I stood under the steam; the routine that I had fallen into that past month suddenly being called into question. I felt unbelievably guilty knowing that Alfred knew about the Red Hood. I mean, it was never explicitly stated that I had to stop (other than Batman's stern telling off on that rooftop ages ago) but it _was_ kind of implied. Bruce had taken me in and offered me some place safe to stay, and here I was disobeying the only thing that he had asked of me.

So yeah, I felt terrible, but at the same time, I couldn't just _stop._ Being out there, protecting people, following that path that I had set myself despite everything that had happened; it felt good. It felt right. I was getting so much better without thoughts of Zucco distracting me – my ratio of fights lost:won was starting to favour the latter, and though the difference that I was making was small, it was _still_ a difference. I couldn't just walk away from that.

So what was I supposed to do?

Frustrated, I wiped the condensation off of the mirror with a little more force than was necessary, splattering water droplets all over the counter. My reflection stared back at me, tired and conflicted. Turning my head slightly, I ran my fingers over the raised welts that were scarring along my neck and shoulder, the burned skin still seeming warm to the touch.

I _say_ that thoughts of Zucco no longer distracted me, but that wasn't entirely true. The reminders were still there every time that I looked in a mirror after all. To say that thoughts of _revenge_ against Zucco no longer plagued me would probably be more accurate. The mob boss was behind bars somewhere; awaiting trial for what he had done to my family, and more recently, to me; so I felt relatively certain that I was getting my justice.

But that didn't make the _fear_ go away.

I could still hear him; his words echoing even months later. I could still smell the acrid scent of burnt skin and blood. But what made it all so much _worse_ was the fact that it was _all my fault_. Zucco had been _right._

 _I_ had taken it too far.

Getting Sonia involved was the biggest mistake that I had ever made. The 'brilliant' idea to kidnap her was the result of petty rebellion and stubbornness and I _knew_ that it was wrong even before I was buried knee deep in it. I don't even know what I was trying to prove or who to. I brought Zucco's retribution down on myself, all because I was too proud and bullheaded to realise that I had crossed the line.

And Sonia?

I hadn't seen her since that Saturday. Once, on one of my earlier rides into Gotham, I had made it all the way to Robinson Park; but standing by the treehouse, I had lost my nerve. What could I say? Her dad was gone and she was living with an aunt that she barely knew all because of me. How could I explain that?

No, I had left Peanuts the elephant sitting on the perch for her to find, and run away.

I'm just brave like that.

By the time that I had found something to wear that covered up all the bruises, I was close to hitting Alfred's one hour deadline. I was finally getting the hang of the geography of the manor, the quickest route to the library already plotted in my head. My leg didn't exactly allow me to run, but I did manage a kind of rushed hobble until the muscle finally started to loosen again.

"Perhaps you would consider talking to the boy, sir," Alfred's proper accent drifted down the hallway, slowing my steps to a cautious amble. "Persuade him against such actions."

"Do you really believe that he will listen to me, Alfred?" Bruce replied. Stealthily, I moved closer to where the voices were coming from until the corridor opened up into the entrance hall. Dropping into a crouch, I crab-crawled up to the banister and looked down below. The two men were standing near the front door; Alfred holding Bruce's briefcase as the billionaire got ready to leave for Wayne Tech. "He wouldn't listen to _Batman_ , and that nearly got the kid _killed."_

"Yes, but that was _Batman_ , sir, giving the boy a hypocritical order," Alfred offered. "Perhaps if _you_ talked to the boy, shared your motivations and experiences, he would understand why his masked activities _must_ cease."

I furrowed my brow at that, trying to process the conversation that I had walked into the middle of. First surprise: Bruce apparently _did_ know about the continuing voyages of the Red Hood (though to be honest, I was beginning to learn that it was best to assume that Bruce knew all things at all times). Second surprise: Alfred was _against_ my vigilantism? What I had witnessed that morning; the newspaper warning, the missing clothes – I had interpreted it as support...

...but no. It was disapproval. Which actually made more sense. Alfred hardly ever outright disagrees with his charges, believing that it is not his place, but rather shows his opinion in more subtle gestures. Or sarcasm.

"Must they, Alfred?" Bruce asked, tentatively.

_Wait. What?_

"I've been watching him," he admitted. "I've seen it. His determination, his resolve to help people. He's good. _Very_ good."

"He is a _child_ , sir," Alfred insisted, his tone angrier and more forceful than I had ever heard it; the ' _sir'_ tacked on the end sounding slightly venomous. "One that you offered to _protect_."

"Maybe the best way to protect him _isn't_ to stop him," Bruce suggested. I was starting to feel dizzy trying to follow the verbal battle, my emotions bouncing between feeling proud from Bruce's praise and feeling a little betrayed that they felt that they could discuss my future without consulting me. "I've already tried telling him 'no', Alfred, and look what that achieved. What if I do so again, and he runs away to prove himself, but this time I'm too late? I can't be responsible for that."

"So what is your solution, sir?" Alfred asked, his voice icy. "Would you offer to train him? Invite him into your war? A child soldier for your crusade? How would you like to be responsible for _that?"_

Bruce looked away from the butler. "I don't know, Alfred. This whole thing is just... I don't know."

* * *

Dinner that night was an awkward affair; but this time, it wasn't because Bruce refused to talk to me.

No, it was a silent war between butler and billionaire.

"Elbows off of the table, Master Richard," Alfred scolded as he served the main course, the laden dishes being placed before us. That evening's offerings were steak and vegetables, and it smelled fantastic. I grinned over at Bruce, who was oddly grimacing at his own plate; which is when I noticed that Alfred had purposely overcooked his elder charge's steak. Like I said: the butler preferred his subtle gestures. "Is something the matter, sir?"

"No, no. Nothing at all, Alfred. Thank you," Bruce said as he glanced up, pasting on a smile that I would later learn was his 'meeting the socialites' mask.

Alfred nodded and then took his seat, the tension obviously thick between the two men. I shifted uncomfortably, knowing that I was the cause of the friction, but not really knowing how to resolve it without inciting an argument (or admitting that I had been eavesdropping...)

"How were your lessons today, Dick?" Bruce asked breaking the silence as he purposely cut into his well-done steak as if there was absolutely nothing wrong. "What did you learn?"

"English is a stupid language," I said succinctly. And accurately. Grammatically correct too.

"Master Richard," Alfred warned. The butler watched with barely concealed satisfaction as Bruce ate the steak with hidden difficulty; their silent battle of wills waging across the table.

I sighed. "I mean, that English is a _difficult_ language. But it can be understood through tough thorough thought, though."

"Much better, sir."

* * *

A few days later, and I was still living in limbo, wondering just what was going to happen to me. Neither Bruce nor Alfred had said anything further, either to each other or to me, regarding my Red Hood activities, which left me completely in the dark. Part of me was intrigued by the prospect of possibly being trained by the Batman; I mean what kid wouldn't be? But I was also terrified that Alfred was right.

It had been proven several times over that I _was just a kid._

But I was doing okay on my own, right? I mean, the Red Hood was still kicking butt (most of the time), and that was without training or back-up or anything and-

 _I've been watching him,_ Bruce had said. Keeping an eye on me; probably steering me _away_ from the fights that he knew I couldn't win. Maybe he was even leading me towards the low level muggers and crooks that I had taken down, watching and assessing even as he was ready to step in the moment that things got too tough. Like some kind of hands-off parenting to let me blow off some steam. Had I really achieved anything this past month?

Or was it all some kind of test?

I was grounded that night thanks to a storm bad enough to flood the harbour and knock out the power to half the city; and while Bruce hadn't explicitly stated that I had to stay home, I understood that the glare he shot me over dinner meant that he didn't want me on the streets. Batman was out to keep the peace while looters hit downtown, but the Red Hood was housebound.

Whatever. I was done playing whatever game it was that Bruce was playing. He wasn't my parent – he wasn't even really my guardian – he had no right to try and decide what I did and didn't do, and I didn't care about his opinion either.

(The fact that I was staying home, as he had non-verbally ordered, did _not_ mean _anything._ I just didn't particularly want to go out in the storm and catch a cold or whatever. That was all.)

No, I was staying at the manor in _protest._ I was even up past my bedtime, sitting in the theatre room watching TV, eating snacks that I had liberated from the kitchen while Alfred was preoccupied in the cave. I was channel surfing; which was a complete novelty to me compared to the old analogue television in our family's trailer, though shockingly, even with five kazillion channels there was still nothing on.

I didn't stop idly flicking through the channels until I caught a glimpse of Batman on the screen; having to click back until I found the local news show that had caught my eye.

" _-heroes responsible for thwarting the recent alien invasion just two months ago,"_ the newscaster announced from behind her desk, footage from the attack playing behind her. _"The seven Appellaxian invaders were stopped by the combined efforts of Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, the Flash, Green Lantern, Aquaman and Martian Manhunter. These super friends assisted emergency services and military personnel during the battle for our planet-"_

I burst out laughing, imagining Bruce's face when he heard that he had been called Uncle Clark's _'super friend',_ the fit not subsiding until the report was almost over. The official formation of the Justice League wouldn't be for another year, but already the team-ups were starting to occur. Just the week before Wonder Woman had helped Aquaman tame some mythic sea monster; and the Flash and Green Lantern were already rumoured to be close friends.

_Amazing what asking for a little help can do, eh, Bruce?_

My thumb was already on the button to keep flicking; when I saw something that made my whole body freeze.

There on the screen, in full HD, was Tony Zucco.

" _In other news, local Gotham crime boss, Anthony Zucco, has been released from custody today-"_

I was gripping the remote so tight that I could feel the plastic cracking in my hand. I wasn't even breathing as fragments of the reporters words tried to break through the fear that gripped me simply from seeing his face; every muscle contracting tight in panic.

" _-found innocent of charges of manslaughter, kidnap, causing grievous bodily harm and racketeering-"_

Immediately the smell of burning flesh made my nose wrinkle in disgust; the scent triggering flashes of memories like a horrifying slide show reel. Glimpses of _that_ night – five bodies hitting concrete – the _snap. Snap. SNAP –_ mixed with my own terrified screams as the same acid that killed my family ate through my skin.

" _-cross examination of a key witness's statement provided reasonable doubt-"_

Survival instinct forced me to take a breath; an explosion of air followed by a shuddering gasp and then all of a sudden I was hyperventilating, tears springing to my eyes and my hands shaking like I was being electrocuted.

" _-renovation of his home in Coventry following a incident involving armed squatters and Zucco's security detail-"_

Anger flared and overrode panic as I threw the remote at the screen with enough force to shatter the plastic. Even as I missed the TV and hit the wall above it, the device seemed to get the hint anyway; the screen going dark just as one last sentence was uttered through the speakers.

" _-new life for this Gothamite with a chequered past-"_

While it felt like my life was over.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

I don't know how I got there.

I don't even remember getting up and leaving the theatre room, let alone stealing Timmy's bike and riding halfway across Gotham. It was as if I had blacked out – a flicker of darkness and suddenly I was standing next to the treehouse and staring up at Zucco's house by Robinson Park, the red hood pulled up like a shield around my face.

The storm was bad; dangerous even – the wind sharp enough and strong enough to literally shred anything left to the mercy of the elements; the rain so heavy that it was as if it were one solid mass falling from the sky rather than droplets. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled like something out of a disaster movie, but I barely noticed any of that.

All I could see was Tony Zucco; face grinning – getting away with murder.

There was a knife in my hand.

 _(Use_ _it.)_

How it got there, I don't remember, but I think that maybe it was the blade that I had confiscated from that mugger months before; buried and forgotten at the bottom of my backpack until the rage had made me reach for it. What I intended to do with it, I didn't really know.

(Well, that's not strictly _true_ now, is it?)

The intent was there; the desire, for sure. (Kill him. Kill him. _Kill him_.) Every little debate that I had had with myself since realising that Zucco had murdered my family (Could I do it? _Should_ I do it?) played out in my head – the voices arguing back and forth until I felt like I was going crazy. (He took _everything_.) But the fear was there too. (Bound. Helpless. _Would you like to know how I killed your family?_ ) Oddly, though, that just tightened my grip on the weapon, washing everything red. Anger was stronger.

I wasn't really thinking – the voices were too loud to allow something as pesky as _logic_ to get through – as I ran up the garden path. _(Accidents happen.)_ My movements were automatic, falling back on an old plan that I had come up with ages ago in order to break into the house. _(Nothing so quick as falling.)_ Avoiding being seen by the guard more through luck than actual skill, I scaled the back wall and crept along the sloped roof, heading straight for the window that I had scoped out using Selina's training.

In my haste I was being careless, stealth forgotten, (Get him. Kill him. Stop him.) sneakers squeaking on the slick tiles and footsteps far too heavy for the _(last)_ Flying Grayson. If it weren't for the storm drowning out absolutely everything then I would have been discovered already. It couldn't drown out the voices though.

_(Does that make it hurt less? Or more?)_

The window opened with ease like an invitation, (Meant to. _Have_ to.) and I tumbled through, hitting the carpet with a thud ( _thud. Thud. THUD.)_ I was shaking so hard that it was nearly impossible to get back to my feet; the knife held so tightly in my hand that the hilt was being imprinted on my palm.

It was dark, the power knocked out by the storm, but a burst of lightening briefly illuminated the hallway that I had landed in.

Five doors. Five choices. Zucco was behind one of them.

_(Kill him.)_

_Bang._ I kicked open the nearest door, the brass handle crashing into the wall. _Empty._

_(Kill him.)_

I turned, staggered, smacked into a little side table and knocked a photo frame to the floor. There was no grace or balance to be had. Everything that I had been taught or learned was forgotten, like I no longer deserved to know it while nothing but ( _Kill_ _Him._ ) rage and retribution occupied my head. I had no control; and if I had had the sense of mind right then that would have terrified me – the fear of losing myself so completely coming true, and I hadn't the will nor the want to stop it.

"Robin?"

The door that I had just been about to slam through was now open, Sonia standing there in a pair of Disney princess jammies with her blonde hair tied up in pigtails.

Instantly, everything went silent. Blank. My head that had literally just been full of murderous thoughts was suddenly a dark void; empty and desolate. Shock.

Distantly, I registered the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs; the guards having finally decided that the banging and the crashing wasn't simply the storm and just now coming up to investigate. Sonia glanced in their direction, hearing them too, and then she was dragging me into her room and hiding me behind the door.

"Miss Zucco? Is everything alright?" one of the guards asked as Sonia stepped out into the hall. I listened as she covered for me; telling her father's men that it was her that had knocked the table and caused all of the noise, even sniffling a little as she apologised and asked them not to tell her dad.

Once they were gone, she came back into the room and shut the door, and then proceeded to stare at me.

"Did you comes here to kill my dad?" she asked, her tone hard to decipher through the complete nothingness that was my mind. It didn't sound overly like an accusation; which made no sense. She could see the knife in my hand. I wasn't trying to hide it. But the cadence of her voice was light, tinged with something darker, but still... _sweet,_ like maybe she was trying to make a joke. Trying to make this easier. "Because he's not here right now. Try again later."

That jolted my brain; jump-starting my thoughts. I stared back at Sonia for a moment, her sad eyes sympathetic despite my obvious intentions. I slid down the wall and curled up on the floor as the reality of what I had come there to do hit me like a super-punch to the gut. I felt physically sick, disgusted, terrified, confused, lost, frightened and... _still so_ damn _angry_.

"Robin?" Sonia prodded, making me jump, though her words were whispered only loud enough to be heard over the wind and the rain that bullied the house. She was sitting cross-legged right in front of me, her hand reaching out to rest on my arm.

I flinched back, undeserving. "W-why-?" I stammered, my voice hoarse from crying. Tears that I hadn't known that I had shed dried on my cheeks even as fresh ones fell; my emotions running rampant as I struggled to find control. "Why are you being so... You _know_ why I'm here."

"I do," Sonia nodded, which didn't help to alleviate the guilt or the confusion in the slightest.

"Then how can you be so-?" I gestured at her, trying to indicate her eerie calm, but failing to find the words.

"Because I knows you won't," she answered confidently, and then shrugged, a sad half-smile on her lips. "And not just because he's not here."

I shook my head, trying to understand. "But I didn't _know_ that," I said, referring to Zucco's absence. I held up the knife pointedly, assuming that she just didn't see how serious this was. How serious _I_ was. "Look at this, Son. I was going to _use_ this. Zucco – your dad – you don't how much I – you don't know what he's done-"

"I knows what he's done to you. Richard Grayson."

My brain shuddered to a halt once again as my real name passed her lips.

"I recognised you when I first mets you that day at the treehouse," Sonia explained, sounding guilty and apologetic. Like it was _her_ that had been deceiving _me._ "It was on the news, what happened to your family, and Daddy... he, he said some nasty things. Tolds me what he had done... I think he thought he was talking to Mom," she said sadly, eyes distant. "But when I asked you who you were, you lied and I... I didn't want to scare you away."

"You knew about..." I tugged at the red hoodie that had been darkened to near-black by the rain. Sonia nodded. She had known _all_ this time? Every lie that I had told, every act that I had put on... she had just been playing along? _Why?_

She had let me 'kidnap' her, I realised belatedly; things slowly beginning to click into place. That day at Amusement Mile – even with the memories of her mom haunting her – she had gone along with the ruse. Accepting every weird excuse that I had given her, confiding in me as though she trusted me; the whole time knowing that I was essentially using her. That at the end of the day, I wanted to hurt her dad. And yet there she was, sitting there and reassuring me as I broke down in front of her as if _none_ of it mattered.

Like we were truly friends despite it all.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" I asked brokenly.

Sonia forced me to meet her brown eyes, and this time as she reached out to touch my arm, I let her.

"I was waiting for you to trust me, as much as I trust you."

Silence fell as her words sunk in; the only sound my ragged breathing and the subdued racket of the storm still raging in the background. I shivered in the cold, Sonia's hand on my arm the only warmth that I could feel as I tried to process everything. I just couldn't believe that she had stuck by me this whole time _knowing_ , patiently waiting for me to realise that maybe it wasn't _all_ an act.

Everything was a mess. I couldn't figure out what I was supposed to do with this revelation, and how that was supposed to effect what I did next. Did I feel lighter knowing that Sonia had lied to me too? Sure, the guilt had lifted a little. Did I feel slightly calmer now than I had when I had first broken into the house? Maybe.

Did I feel safer knowing that Zucco was walking free – had the fear gone away? No. Did I feel as if justice had been done – was there any closure for the loss of my family? _No._ When I looked down at the knife in my hand, did I still want to use it? _Yes._ The betrayal, the rage, the _terror_ , was still very much there. And as much as I knew that it would hurt Sonia; the desire to hurt Tony Zucco hadn't ebbed in the slightest.

"Would it make you feel better?" Sonia asked after a while. "Killing my dad?"

I thought it over, carefully, trying to see beyond the anger and the hurt that I had allowed to dictate my actions. But it was hard, it was _so_ hard to see anything past the weapon I held and the memories of everything that Zucco had done. All the pain that he had caused – and would _continue_ to inflict. "It would stop him from hurting anyone else," I reasoned out loud. I looked at Sonia. "It would stop him from hurting _you._ "

"But would it make _you_ feel better?" she repeated, as if I had missed the point.

Maybe it would, I thought to myself. I mean, I wasn't an idiot, I knew that it wouldn't magically fix everything. It wouldn't bring my family back. But maybe I could get that closure, knowing that the monster that had haunted me would never be able to hurt me again. Maybe then I could move on like I had when I had believed that Zucco was in jail... and _this_ time he would _never_ come back.

"I tried it my way, Son," I said eventually. "I tried to make it hurt less by taking things from him, making him feel it too. The things I did – the car, the house... _you_..." I hesitated, glancing at Sonia who nodded, confirming for sure that she had known about the 'kidnapping'. "It wasn't enough. I've tried it the law-way as well. Justice and Revenge and he's still... _I'm_ still..."

"Do you trust me now, Robin?" Sonia asked, cutting me off. Without a seconds hesitation, I nodded. "Then listen to me. You _are_ my best friend, _whatever_ happens."

She paused, trying to find the right way to word what she wanted to say. I watched as she briefly imitated a goldfish, and then her face settled, totally resolved. "If you still want to kill my Dad then..." she said, and then took a deep, readying breath. I ducked my head, expecting a threat of some kind. But no. "Then... then we'll go to Uncle Falcone's right now and I'll... I'll... I'll _help_."

Sonia stumbled over the words, but her conviction was true. I didn't doubt for a moment that if I asked her to, she would be willingly complicit in her own father's murder. I floundered for words, trying to find something that would tell her just how much I did not want that. How much I _never_ wanted that.

But Sonia wasn't finished.

"But I know you, Robin," she continued, once again using the name that I had given her, like the deception behind it didn't make it any less real. "I saw you that day at the cinema. You _saved_ those people from Penguin with no thought for yourself and... and..."

She trailed off, her hand squeezing tighter on my arm. "Do you remembers what I said? After? That maybe _anyone_ can be a good guy? _You_ taught me that and..." she smiled at me warmly. "And I want to be a good guy like you."

My cheeks flushed from the praise, Sonia once again the only person to confirm that my junior-vigilantism, my attempts to help people, my want to maybe become a hero, was the right thing to do.

"I don't _want_ that to change," Sonia murmured quietly. "And killing my dad? That _would_ change you."

All of a sudden she was pulling me into a hug, arms flung around my shoulders and her face pressed against my neck; completely fearless of the knife that I still held loosely in my hand. We were both crying by then, clinging on to each other tight. _Best_ _friends_. She would do anything for me, and I realised then, that I would do anything she asked of me too.

"So please, Robin," she begged against my shoulder. "Please don't become a bad guy like him."

The knife thudded against the carpet

* * *

The bike was gone.

Two hours after having tumbled in through Zucco's window and I was back out in the rain; standing near the overpass on the other side of Robinson Park, and staring at the empty space that had once housed Tim's borrowed bike. I shouldn't have been surprised – this was Gotham, after all – but after everything that had happened that night, the thought of tiny Timmy's disappointed face just felt like another nail in my coffin.

I was riding the low of the adrenaline rush that had long since abandoned me; the aftermath of blind rage and deep confessions leaving me with nothing left. I was strung out and exhausted, shaking from both the cold and my abused emotions and I...

And I just wanted to go _home_.

But that was yet another question that I didn't have the energy to face.

Apparently, I had had more of a plan than I remembered being coherent enough to formulate, because as I had left Sonia's I had found my backpack waiting for me at the treehouse. It was packed and ready (it had never been _un_ packed), the go-bag prepped with clothes and food and a few first aid supplies. I was ready to run. On some unconscious level, I had known that if I had gone through with killing Zucco, there was no way that I could have _ever_ returned to Wayne Manor.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened to me if it had been Zucco and not Sonia that I had met that night – how different would my life have been? How different would _I_ have been?

All I know for certain is that I would have ended up totally alone.

Ending his life would have ended my own.

But I _hadn't_ crossed that line. I _hadn't_ killed Zucco. And weirdly, _that_ screwed everything up. It was obvious before; running away would have been the only option, but now I _could_ go back. Gradually, over those past few months, I had grown comfortable at Wayne Manor; and Bruce, Alfred... they really seemed to care. Could I go back to them? Admit what I had almost done?

Could I face their disappointment in me?

I didn't hear the deep rumble of the engine, the rain thundering down on the concrete overpass was far too loud for that, but I did feel his presence. Headlamps flooded the small incline, casting my shadow long as I turned around slowly and looked up.

Batman stood beside the batmobile, expression unreadable through the cowl.

"Get in the car."

I obeyed the order, automatically, more than anything, trudging up the muddy hill and ducking under Batman's arm as he held the passenger door open for me. It was my first ride in the batmobile – I should have been excited or thrilled or something, but I was too out of it to really care. I had figured that this was it – that it didn't matter what I wanted, Batman must know what I had done; that I was a potential killer. My stay at Wayne Manor was over. He was just taking me home to maintain cover or whatever, and in the morning, Bruce would be handing me over to social services.

Maybe he'd drive me back to Bristol himself.

The journey passed in total silence. When the car eventually stopped in the cave, I didn't react; I just waited for the inevitable. Batman climbed out of the car and vanished – probably to prepare a lecture, or maybe just to confirm arrangements for my departure with Alfred. I couldn't muster the energy to care; simply slouching further in my seat and letting the exhaustion numb my mind and body.

And then the door on my side opened, and Bruce was crouched down next to me in a pair of sweats and a tee; the man behind the mask studying me with concern and understanding.

I blinked in confusion at his expression, but didn't try to fight or argue when Bruce simply picked me up without a word. I just curled into the safety and warmth that he offered; surprised and relieved and tensed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"My word!" Alfred exclaimed when he saw us, immediately coming over to check on me. "Is he hurt, sir?"

Bruce shook his head and held me tighter. "It's okay. I got him, Alfred."

The butler nodded and backed away slightly, his expression an odd mix of worry for me and delight toward Bruce; as if maybe he was glad to finally see this side of his eldest charge, but hated the situation that had brought it about.

Bruce carried me all the way up the stairs and to my room, and then gently sat me down on the huge bed, ignoring the mud that instantly covered the comforter. I shivered in my rain-soaked clothes, prompting him to grab the blanket from the end of the bed and wrap it around my shoulders. And then he grabbed a towel from the bathroom and pulled down my hood so that we could dry my hair.

Everything was done in complete silence. I still couldn't figure out if this meant that he was mad at me but just didn't want me to catch a cold, or if maybe he didn't know about Zucco yet and he had just caught me playing vigilante without permission. Or maybe he wasn't angry with me at all... because the way that he looked at me... it just didn't really seem irate. In fact, he actually looked kinda... _proud..._

And I just couldn't understand that at all.

"I never found the man who killed my parents," Bruce said finally, his eyes distant as he stared at somewhere over my left shoulder. I winced somewhat warily, knowing for certain now that he knew about Zucco. This was the beginning of the lecture, I was sure of it. And it was going to end the way that I feared. "The police never found out who did it, and I didn't have the ability to find out myself."

And _there_ was the anger – but it wasn't directed at me, I realised. He was mad at _himself_ , believing that he had somehow betrayed his parents by not prowling the night in search of their killer. "Sometimes, I wonder, what would I do if I ever found him?" Bruce told me, "And then I feel the anger and the pain. And I realise then that I don't like the honest answer to that question."

Finally, he met my gaze, the pride that I had thought I saw earlier shining through. "I can't imagine the strength that it would take to _walk away._ "

I buried myself deeper into the blanket, trying to hide the shame that I felt. As far as I was concerned, there hadn't been any strength on my part; just coincidence and happenstance. If Zucco had been home – if Sonia hadn't of intercepted me – I highly doubted that I would have had the so-called 'strength' to walk away. I felt like a coward; scared, confused, weak...

Bruce pulled me into a hug.

It was so unexpected that I froze up for a moment; Bruce sensing my hesitation and tensing as well, but thankfully not releasing the hold. He had never willingly offered that kind of support before – he wasn't the hugging type. He had presented himself as more of a distant benefactor than anything. But the comfort felt good and I was so tired and drained and in desperate need of such a simple gesture, that in moments I had relaxed into the hug.

We stayed like that for a while, until I was practically falling asleep in his arms. It was just as my eyes were slipping closed that Bruce chose to speak again.

"I've given this a lot of thought," he began confidently; and instantly I was on edge again, believing that despite the affection, Bruce was still going to send me back. But then I could hear the hesitation in his voice as he continued. "I... I could never replace your parents..."

I looked up at him from where I was still bundled against his chest, trying to work out if that meant what I thought it might mean. "I wouldn't want you to," I whispered, the words slipping out without me intending them to.

Bruce looked away for a moment, and I internally cringed, thinking that I had screwed up my chances.

But then he nodded to himself, and glanced back down at me again. He found the edge of my hood that was poking out of the blanket and tugged at it pointedly. " _This_ would have to stop," he warned.

I nodded. I wasn't 100% sure as to what end it was that I was agreeing to, but something that felt a little bit like hope was warming in my chest.

"But we will still bring Tony Zucco to justice," Bruce promised. He pulled back out of the hug a little so that he could properly look me in the eye. "I _swear_ that he will pay for all that he's done to you, Dick. Until then, I'll keep you safe. Wayne Manor can be your home for as long as you want it."

Not need. _Want._ Only a slight difference to what he had said when he had last offered the manor as a home, but I think that maybe _that_ was more important to me right then than even the oath of bringing Zucco to justice. It proved that I wasn't a burden. That I wasn't a responsibility that Bruce hadn't expected or needed and maybe, just maybe, I was _wanted_ as well.

"Would you like to become my ward?" Bruce asked.

I didn't even have to think about it.

"Yes."

* * *

When I woke up the next morning I was alone, but that was okay.

The big bed in the huge room oddly didn't seem so scary anymore; and as I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, I realised that I actually felt safe and warm and comfortable. I figured that maybe the tension and fear that had kept me awake at night wasn't really the space and the shadows. Maybe it was because yesterday... yesterday the manor wasn't my home. But now...

I pushed myself upright, feeling better rested than I had in ages – since probably before the Fall – and just sat there for a moment. Someone had stuck me in my Superman pyjamas, my muddy clothes from the night before freshly laundered and folded on top of the dresser. My backpack, still packed and ready, rested by the door as if left there on purpose. As if the option was still there for me to leave if I so wanted.

As if Bruce was just as afraid of _me_ changing my mind as I was of him changing his.

Slowly, I climbed out of the bed and stood, stretching out the kinks from sleeping so heavily before tiptoeing over to the dresser. I have to admit, the thought did cross my mind to leave. I was so scared of screwing this up; terrified of having a new home and maybe a new family and then losing it all over again. I didn't think that I could survive that a second time.

But I had been alone for so long now and I was tired of that. And I thought that maybe my parents wouldn't want that for me either. They probably would have liked Bruce, I figured, and staying there at Wayne Manor, I could have a good life like most parents want for their children. And maybe that would make them proud.

My fingers wrapped around the red fabric of the hoodie that I had practically lived in for nearly a year. I recalled all of the reasons behind it, all that it meant and represented. Every fight lost and won, and every achievement earned, was woven into each tear and stain. Alfred had repaired it, of course, and the blood had been thoroughly washed out, but I could still feel it there. You might think that it was just a jumper, but for me it had been an escape, a mask; a whole new identity that I had created to help me figure out how to cope.

But Bruce was right. It would have to end now.

It was time to start over. A new life and all that. And the Red Hood just didn't fit anymore.

I didn't _need_ it anymore.

Picking up the hoodie, I walked over to the closet that I had been nesting in and pulled open the door. Half of the rack was occupied by clothes that Alfred had bought for me, but nothing there was actually _mine_. I grabbed an empty hanger and carefully hooked the jumper on it, hesitating a moment before slotting it in the vacant space.

And then I stepped back and paused; my eyes sliding over to the backpack by the door.

Maybe it was time to unpack.

* * *

When the training started, it was never explicitly called 'training'.

I think that maybe Bruce understood that the urge to go out in the middle of the night and play hero never really went away once you had had a taste; and so in an excellent display of parenting skills, Bruce had had a gym fitted in the cave especially suited for my skill set. The idea was to bleed off the extra energy and wear me out during the day, so that come the night I was too tired to try and sneak out on my own, Red Hood or no. But over time it gradually developed from me simply having fun on the parallel bars to actual set training regimes.

No one ever said out loud what the end game would be, but Alfred's disapproval grew monumentally when one day the Aikido and Tae Kwon Do training began.

"He needs to learn how to defend himself," Bruce had said.

He hasn't had a properly cooked steak since.

But Bruce had changed since I had come along; and even Alfred was beginning to admit that, if only to himself. He was developing these scary things called 'social skills', and though Bruce would never say it out loud; as he helped to form the Justice League, he was also making friends.

It was gradual, not overly noticeable (breaking through years of stunted emotional growth doesn't happen overnight) but it _was_ happening.

And Batman was changing with him.

It was nearly March by the time that it was finally considered a possibility that I could be a vigilante again. One night, an Arkham breakout had left Batman stretched thin, forcing him to call for back-up. I was at the cave, listening and watching the city's security feeds, begging Alfred to let me go and help. I was _ten_ , I had argued (because being ten-years-old had seemed so grown-up back then) but the butler had refused. Ultimately, Batman had called the Flash for help, though he clearly wasn't happy about it.

I think that's when Bruce first really considered the idea of having a 'sidekick'.

But still I was kept home, another month passing and the first anniversary of the death of my family survived, _barely,_ before anything more came of it.

Batman had finally built an airtight case against Tony Zucco. No lawyer in the 'verse could find a loophole or technicality to dismiss it. This time, officially, the man who murdered my family was going to pay.

And I was invited along to make the arrest.

"I suppose that if you must insist on going through with this, Master Richard" Alfred had said that day as we stood in the cave. It was clear that he wasn't happy about this, but he understood how important it was for me. How much I _needed_ to be there. Even if nothing more ever came of it – even if the cape was hung up beside the hoodie the next day, it _didn't_ matter. "Then I should ensure that you are well-protected. And looking stylish, of course."

He presented the uniform to me then, the red, black and yellow reminiscent of the Flying Graysons and reminding me of _why_ I was doing this. The first version had thicker armour than I would eventually develop, Alfred being a little overzealous with the kevlar in his concern for my well-being, but I loved it anyway.

Alfred smiled at my excitement, though worry still tinged his eyes. "I assume that you will be needing a name as well, young sir?"

Well, that was easy. My mother had given it to me years ago. I had been using it with Sonia since we had met. She was the one that had validated me and my grand attempts at being a hero, saying the moniker like it was my true name all along.

I guess that little Annie Trudeau had been right that day at Haly's.

_'You'll never stop flying, Robin.'_


End file.
